J-NRLF 


B    M    1DM    SSfi 


K  ^ 


' 


V 


ft 


WOMAN'S   TRIALS; 


TALES  AND  SKETCHES  FROM  THE  LIFE 
AROUND  US. 


BY  T.  S.  ARTHUK. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   &    CO. 

1860. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by 

T.  S.  ARTHUR, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


PS 


PREFACE. 


THE  title  of  this  volume  sufficiently  indicates  its 
purpose.  The  stories  of  which  it  is  composed  have 
been  mainly  written  with  the  end  of  creating  for 
woman,  in  the  various  life-trials  through  which  she 
has  to  pass,  sympathy  and  true  consideration,  as  well 
in  her  own  sex  as  in  ours.  We  are  all  too  much 
engrossed  in  what  concerns  ourselves — in  our  own 
peculiar  wants,  trials,  and  sufferings— to  give  that 
thought  to  others  which  true  humanity  should  inspire. 
To  the  creator  of  fictitious  histories  is,  therefore,  left 
the  task  of  reminding  us  of  our  duty,  by  presenting 
pictures  from  the  world  of  life  around  us- -moving 
pictures,  in  which  we  may  not  only  see  the  effect  of 
our  actions  upon  others,  but  also  the  relations  of 
others  to  society,  and  thus  learn  to  sympathize  with 
the  tried  and  the  tempted,  the  suffering  and  the 
oppressed,  the  grief-stricken  and  the  mourner.  It  is 
good  for  us,  at  times,  to  forget  ourselves ;  to  think  of 
others  and  feel  a  heart-warm  interest  in  all  that  con- 

945043    3 


PREFACE. 


cerns  them.  If  the  perusal  of  this  volume  has  such  an 
effect  upon  the  reader's  mind,  it  will  accomplish  all 
that  its  author  desires ;  for  right  feeling  is  but  the 
prompter  to  right  action. 


CONTENTS. 


PACK 

A  LESSON  OF  PATIENCE 7 

I  DIDN'T  THINK  OP  THAT 26 

TAKING  BOARDERS 40 

PLAIN  SEWING;  OR,  How  TO  ENCOURAGE  THE, POOR..  123 

JESSIE  HAMPTON 134 

THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT 154 

AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE 176 

HOME  AT  LAST 195 

GOING  HOME...  ...211 


WOMAN'S  TRIALS. 


A  LESSON  OF  PATIENCE. 


I  WAS  very  unhappy,  from  a  variety  of  causes,  de 
finable  and  undefmable.  My  chambermaidjiad  been 
cross  for  a  week,  and,  by  talking  to  my  cook,  had 
made  her  dissatisfied  with  her  place.  The  mother 
of  five  little  children,  I  felt  that  I  had  a  weight  of 
care  and  responsibility  greater  than  I  could  support. 
I  was  unequal  to  the  task.  My  spirits  fell  under 
its  bare  contemplation.  Then  I  had  been  disap 
pointed  in  a  seamstress,  and  my  children  were,  as 
the  saying  is,  "in  rags."  While  brooding  over  these 
and  other  disheartening  circumstances,  Netty,  my 
chambermaid,  opened  the  door  of  the  room  where  I 
was  sitting,  (it  was  Monday  morning,)  and  said — 

"Harriet  has  just  sent  word  that  she  is  sick,  and 
can't  come  to-day." 

"  Then  you  and  Agnes  will  have  to  do  the  wash 
ing,"  I  replied,  in  a  fretful  voice;  this  new  source  of 
trouble  completely  breaking  me  down. 


8  A   LESSON   GF   PATIENCE. 

"Indeed,  ma'am/'  replied  Netty,  tossing  her  head 
and  spiking  with  some  pertaess,  "/can't  do  the 
washing.  I  didn't  engage  for  any  thing  but  chamber- 
work." 

And  so  saying  she  left  me  to  my  own  reflections 
I  must  own  to  feeling  exceedingly  angry,  and  rose 
to  ring  the  bell  for  Netty  to  return,  in  order  to  tell 
her  that  she  could  go  to  washing  or  leave  the  house, 
as  best  suited  her  fancy.  But  the  sudden  recol 
lection  of  a  somewhat  similar  collision  with  a  former 
chambermaid,  in  which  I  was  worsted,  and  compelled 
to  do  my  own  chamber-work  for  a  week,  caused  me 
to  hesitat^,  and,  finally,  to  sit  down  and  indulge  in 
a  hearty  fit  of  crying. 

When  my  husband  came  home  at  dinner  time, 
things  did  not  seem  very  pleasant  for  him,  I  must 
own.  I  had  on  a  long,  a  very  long  face — much  longer 
than  it  was  when  he  went  away  in  the  morning. 

"Still  in  trouble,  I  see,  Jane,"  said  he.  "I  wish 
you  would  try  and  take  things  a  little  more  cheerfully. 
To  be  unhappy  about  what  is  not  exactly  agreeable 
doesn't  help  the  matter  any,  but  really  makes  it 
worse/' 

ulf  you  had  to  contend  with  what  I  have  to  con 
tend  with,  you  wouldn't  talk  about  things  being  ex 
actly  agreeable"  I  replied  to  this.  "  It  is  easy  enough 
to  talk.  I  only  wish  you  had  a  little  of  my  trouble ; 
you  wouldn't  think  so  lightly  of  it." 

"  What  is  the  great  trouble  now,  Jane  ?"  said  my 


A   LESSON   OP  PATIENCE.  9 

husband,  without  being  at  all  fretted  with  my  un- 
amiable  temper.  "Let  us  hear.  Perhaps  I  can  sug 
gest  a  remedy." 

"If  you  will  get  me  a  washerwoman, you  will  ex 
ceedingly  oblige  me,"  said  I. 

"Where  is  Harriet?"  he  asked. 

"She  is  sick,  or  pretends  to  be,  I  don't  know 
which." 

"Perhaps  she  will  be  well  enough  to  do  your  wash 
ing  to-morrow,"  suggested  my  husband. 

"Perhaps  is  a  poor  dependence." 

I  said  this  with"  a  tartness  that  ill  repaid  my  hus 
band's  effort  to  comfort  me.  I  saw  that  he  felt  the 
unkindness  of  my  manner,  in  the  slight  shade  that 
passed  over  his  face. 

"  Can't  you  get  some  one  else  to  do  your  washing 
this  week  ?" 

I  made  no  reply.  The  question  was  easily  asked. 
After  that,  my  husband  was  silent, — silent  in  that 
peculiar  way  that  I  understood,  too  well,  as  the  effect 
of  my  words,  or  tones,  or  state  of  mind.  Here  was 
another  cause  for  unhappiness,  in  the  reflection  that 
I  had  disturbed  my  husband's  peace. 

I  am  sure  that  I  did  not  much  look  like  a  loving 
wife  and  mother  as  I  presided  at  the  dinner  table 
that  day.  The  children  never  seemed  so  restless 
and  hard  to  manage;  and  I  could  not  help  speaking 
to  them,  every  now  and  then,  "as  if  I  would  take 
their  heads  off;"  but  to  little  good  effect. 


10  A   LESSON  OF  PATIENCE. 

After  my  husband  went  away  on  finishing  his 
dinner,  I  went  to  bed,  and  cried  for  more  than 
half  the  afternoon.  Oh !  how  wretched  I  felt !  Life 
seemed  an  almost  intolerable  burden. 

Then  my  mind  grew  more  composed,  and  I  tried 
to  think  about  what  was  to  be  done.  The  necessity 
for  having  the  clothes  washed  was  absolute ;  and  this 
roused  me,  at  length,  as  the  most  pressing  domestic 
duty,  into  thinking  so  earnestly,  that  I  presently 
rang  the  bell  for  Netty,  who  came  in  her  own  good 
time. 

"  Tell  Agnes  that  I  want  to  see  her,"  said  I,  not 
in  a  very  good-natured  way.  • 

The  effect  was  that  Netty  left  the  chamber  with 
out  replying,  and  slammed  the  door  hard  after  her, 
which  mark  of  disrespect  set  my  blood  to  boiling. 
In  a  little  while  my  cook  made  her  appearance. 

"Agnes,"  said  I,  "do  you  know  of  any  one  that 
I  can  get  to  do  the  washing  this  week  ?" 

Agnes  thought  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  re 
plied — 

"There's  a  poor  woman  who  lives  near  my 
mother's.  I  think  she  goes  out  to  wash  sometimes." 

"  I  wish  you  would  step  round  and  see  if  she  can't 
come  here  to-morrow." 

Agnes  said  that  she  would  do  so. 

"  Tell  her  she  must  come,"  said  I. 

'l  Very  well,  ma'am." 

And  Agnes  withdrew. 


A   LESSON   OF  PATIENCE.  11 

In  an  hour  she  came  back,  and  said  that  she  had 
seen  the  woman;  who  promised  to  come. 

"  What  is  her  name  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Partridge,"  was  answered. 

"  You  think  she  won't  disappoint  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am.  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Partridge 
is  the  kind  of  a  woman  to  promise  and  then  disap 
point  a  person." 

It  was  some  relief  to  think  I  was  going  to  get  my 
washing  done ;  but  the  idea  of  haying  the  ironing 
about  all  the  week  fretted  my  mind.  And  no  sooner 
was  this  leading  trouble  set  aside,  than  I  began  to 
worry  about  the  children's  clothes,  and  the  prospect 
of  losing  my  cook,  who  had  managed  my  kitchen 
more  to  my  satisfaction  than  any  one  had  ever  done 
before. 

The  promise  for  a  pleasant  hour  at  home  was  but 
little  more  flattering  to  my  husband,  when  he  re 
turned  in  the  evening,  than  it  had  been  at  dinner 
time.  I  was  still  in  a  sombre  mood. 

In  the  morning  Mrs.  Partridge  came  early  and 
commenced  the  washing.  There  was  something 
in  this  woman's  appearance  that  interested  me,  and 
something  in  her  face  that  reminded  me  of  some 
body  I  had  seen  before ;  but  when  and  where  I  could 
not  tell.  Although  her  clothes  were  poor  and  faded, 
there  was  nothing  common  about  her,  and  she  struck 
me  as  being  superior  to  her  class.  Several  times 
during  the  morning  I  had  to  go  into  the  kitchen 


12  A   LESSON   OF   PATIENCE. 


where  she  was  at  work,  and  each  time  her  appearance 
impressed  me  more  and  more.  An  emotion  of  pity 
arose  in  my  bosom,  as  I  saw  her  bending  over  the 
washing  tub,  and  remembered  that,  for  this  hard 
labour  during  a  whole  day,  the  pay  was  to  be  but 
seventy-five  cents.  And  yet  there  was  an  air  of  meek 
patience,  if  not  contentment,  in  her  face;  while  I,  who 
had  every  thing  from  which  I  ought  to  have  derived 
happiness,  was  dissatisfied  and  full  of  trouble.  While 
in  her  presence  I  felt  rebuked  for  my  complaining 
spirit. 

At  dinner  time  Mrs.  Partridge  came  to  my  room, 
and  with  a  gentle,  patient  smile  on  her  face,  said — 

"  If  you  have  no  objections,  ma'am,  I  would  like 
to  run  home  for -a  few  minutes  to  nurse  my  baby  and 
give  the  children  something  to  eat.  I'll  make  up 
the  time." 

"  Go  by  all  means,"  I  replied,  with  an  effort  to 
speak  calmly. 

The  woman  turned,  and  went  quickly  away. 

"  Run  home  to  nurse  the  baby  and  give  the  chil 
dren  something  to  eat !"  The  words  went  through 
and  through  me.  So  unexpected  a  request,  revealing, 
as  it  did,  the  existence  of  such  biting  poverty  in  one 
who  was  evidently  bearing  her  hard  lot  without  a 
murmur,  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself  for  com 
plaining  at  things  which  I  ought  to  have  borne  with 
a  cheerful  spirit.  I  had  a  comfortable,  in  fact  a 
luxurious,  home,  a  kind  and  provident  husband,  and 


A   LESSON   OP  PATIEXCE.  13 

servants  to  do  every  thing  in  my  house.  There  was 
no  lack  of  the  means  for  procuring  every  natural 
good  I  might  reasonably  desire.  But,  between  the 
means  and  the  attainment  of  the  natural  blessings  I 
sought,  there  were  many  obstacles;  and,  instead  of 
going  to  work  in  a  cheerful,  confident  spirit  to  re 
move  those  obstacles,  I  suffered  their  interposition 
to  make  me  unhappy;  and  not  me  alone,  but  my 
husband  and  all  around  me.  But  here  was  a  poor 
woman,  compelled  to  labour  hard  with  her  -hands  be 
fore  she  could  obtain  even  the  means  for  supplying 
nature's  most  pressing  wants,  doing  her  duty  with 
an  earnest,  resigned,  and  hopeful  spirit ! 

"  It  is  wicked  in  me  to  feel  as  I  do,"  I  could  not 
help  saying,  as  I  made  an  effort  to  turn  away  from 
the  picture  that  was  before  me. 

When  Mrs.  Partridge  came  back,  which  was  in 
about  half  an  hour,  I  said  to  her — 

"  Did  you  find  all  safe  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  thank  you,"  she  answered  cheer 
fully. 

"  How  old  is  your  baby  ?" 

"Eleven  months  old,  ma'am." 

"  Is  your  husband  living  ?" 

:'No,  ma'am;  he  died  more  than  a  year  ago." 

"  How  many  children  have  you  ?" 

"Four." 

"All  young?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.     The  oldest  is  only  in  her  tenth 
2 


14  A   LESSON   OF   PATIENCE. 

year,  but  she  is  a  good  little  girl,  and  takes  care  of 
the  baby  for  me  almost  as  well  as  a  grown  person. 
I  don't  know  what  I  would  do  without  her." 

"  But  ain't  you  afraid  to  leave  them  all  at  home 
alone,  for  so  long  a  Mine  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am.  Jane  takes  excellent  care  of  them, 
and  she  is  so  kind  that  they  will  obey  her  as  well 
as  they  do  me.  I  don't  know  what  in  the  world  I 
would  do  without  her.  I  am  certainly  blessed  in 
having  so  good  a  child/' 

"  And  only  in  her  tenth  year !"  said  I — the  image 
of  my  Alice  coming  before  my  mind,  with  the 
thought  of  the  little  use  she  would  be  as  a  nurse 
and  care-taker  of  her  younger  brothers  and  sisters. 

"She  is  young,  I  know,"  returned  the  washer 
woman — "  too  young  to  be  confined  down  as  much 
is  she  is.  But  then  she  is  a  very  patient  child,  and 
knows  that  her  mother  has  a  great  deal  to  do.  I 
often  wish  it  was  easier  for  her ;  though,  as  it  can't 
be  helped,  I  don't  let  it  fret  me,  for  you  know  that 
would  do  no  good." 

"  But  how  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Partridge,"  said  I, 
"  do  you  manage  to  provide  for  four  children,  and 
do  for  them  at  the  same  time  ?" 

"I  find  it  hard  work,"  she  replied;  "and  some 
times  I  feel  discouraged  for  a  little  while ;  but  by 
patience  and  perseverance  I  manage  to  get  along." 

Mrs.  Partridge  went  to  her  washing,  and  I  sat 
down  in  my  comfortable  room,  having  a  servant  in 


A   LESSON    OF   PATIENCE.  15 

every  department  of  my  family,  and  ample  means 
for  the  supply  of  every  comfort  and  luxury  I  could 
reasonably  desire. 

"If  she  can  get  along  by  patience  and  perse 
verance,"  said  I  to  myself,  "it's  a  shame  for  me 
that  I  can't."  Still,  for  all  this,  when  I  thought  of 
losing  my  cook  through  the  bad  influence  of  Netty, 
the  chambermaid,  I  felt  worried ;  and  thinking  about 
this,  and  what  I  should  do  for  another  cook,  and  the 
trouble  always  attendant  upon  bringing  a  new  do 
mestic  into  the  house,  made  me,  after  a  while,  feel 
almost  as  unhappy  as  before.  It  was  not  long  before 
Netty  came  into  my  room,  saying,  as  she  did  so — 

"  Mrs.  Smith,  what  frock  shall  I  put  on  Alice  ?" 

"  The  one  with  a  blue  sprig,"  I  replied. 

"  That's  in  the  wash,"  was  answered. 

"  In  the  wash  V  said  I,  in  a  fretful  tone.  "  How 
came  it  in  the  wash  ?" 

"  It  was  dirty." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  any  such  thing.  It  would  have 
done  very  well  for  her  to  put  on  as  a  change  to-day 
and  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  it's  in  the  wash,  and  no  help  for 
it  now,"  said  Netty,  quite  pertly. 

I  was  dreadfully  provoked  with  her,  and  had  it 
on  my  tongue  to  order  her  to  leave  my  presence  in 
stantly.  But  I  choked  down  my  rising  indignation. 

"  Take  the  red  and  white  one,  then,"  said  I. 

"The  sleeve's  nearly  torn  off  of  that.      There 


16    •  A   LESSON    OF    PATIENCE. 


isn't  any  one  that  she  can  wear  except  her  white 
muslin." 

"Oh  dear!  It's  too  bad!  What  shall  I  do? 
The  children  are  all  in  rags  and  tatters  !" 

And  in  this  style  I  fretted  away  for  three  or  four 
minutes,  while  Netty  stood  waiting  for  my  decision 
as  to  what  Alice  was  to  wear. 

"  Shall  she  put  on  the  white  muslin  ?"  she  at 
length  asked. 

"No,  indeed!  Certainly  not !  A  pretty  condi 
tion  she'd  have  it  in  before  night !  Go  and  get  me 
the  red  and  white  frock,  and  I  will  mend  it.  You 
ought  to  have  told  me  it  was  torn  this  morning. 
You  knew  there  was  nothing  for  the  child  to  put  on 
but  this.  I  never  saw  such  a  set  as  you  are  I" 

Netty  flirted  away,  grumbling  to  herself.  When 
she  came  in,  she  threw  the  frock  into  my  lap  with 
a  manner  so  insolent  and  provoking  that  I  could 
hardly  keep  from  breaking  out  upon  her  and  rating 
her  soundly.  One  thing  that  helped  to  restrain 
me  was  the  recollection  of  sundry  ebullitions 
of  a  like  nature  that  had  neither  produced  good 
effects  nor  left  my  mind  in  a  state  of  much  self-re 
spect  or  tranquillity. 

I  repaired  the  torn  sleeve,  while  Netty  stood  by. 
It  was  the  work  of  but  five  minutes. 

"  Be  sure,"  said  I,  as  I  handed  the  garment  to 
Netty,  "  to  see  that  one  of  Alice's  frocks  is  ironed 
the  first  ihing  to-morrow  morning." 


A   LESSON   OF   PATIENCE.  17 

The  girl  heard,  of  course,  but  she  made  no  an- 
fewer.  That  was  rather  more  of  a  condescension  than 
she  was  willing  to  make  just  then. 

Instead  of  thinking  how  easily  the  difficulty  of  the 
clean  frock  for  Alice  had  been  gotten  over,  I  began 
fretting  myself  because  I  had  not  been  able  to  pro 
cure  a  seamstress,  although  the  children  were  "all  in 
rags  and  tatters/' 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  I  said,  half  crying,  as  I 
began  to  rock  myself  backward  and  forward  in  the 
great  rocking-chair.  "I  am  out  of  all  heart."  For 
an  hour  I  continued  to  rock  and  fret  myself,  and 
then  came  to  the  desperate  resolution  to  go  to  work 
and  try  what  I  could  do  with  my  own  hands.  But 
where  was  I  to  begin  ?  What  was  I  to  take  hold  of 
first  ?  All  the  children  were  in  rags. 

"  Not  one  of  them  has  a  decent  garment  to  his 
back,"  said  I. 

So,  after  worrying  for  a  whole  hour  about  what  I 
should  do,  and  where  I  should  begin,  I  abandoned 
the  idea  of  attempting  any  thing  myself,  in  despair, 
and  concluded  the  perplexing  debate  by  taking 
another  hearty  crying-spell.  The  poor  washer 
woman  was  forgotten  during  most  of  this  afternoon. 
My  own  troubles  were  too  near  the  axis  of  vision, 
and  shut  out  all  other  objects. 

The  dusky  twilight  had  begun  to  fall,  and  I  was 
still  sitting  idly  in  my  chamber,  and  as  unhappy 
as  I  could  be.    I  felt  completely  discouraged.     How 
2* 


J8  A   LESSON    OF   PATIENCE. 

was  I  to  get  along  ?  I  had  been  trying  lor  weeks, 
in  vain,  to  get  a  good  seamstress;  and  yet  had  no 
prospect  of  obtaining  one.  I  was  going  to  lose  my 
cook,  and,  in  all  probability,  my  chambermaid. 
What  would  I  do?  No  light  broke  in  through  the 
cloudy  veil  that  overhung  my  mind.  The  door 
opened,  and  Agnes,  who  had  come  up  to  my  room, 
said — 

"  Mrs.  Partridge  is  done." 

I  took  out  my  purse,  and  had  selected  therefrom 
the  change  necessary  to  pay  the  washerwoman, 
when  a  thought  of  her  caused  me  to  say — 

"  Tell  Mrs.  Partridge  to  come  up  and  see  me." 

My  thoughts  and  feelings  were  changing.  By 
the  time  the  washerwoman  came  in,  my  interest 
in  her  was  alive  again. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  I,  to  the  tired-looking  creature, 
who  sank  into  a  chair,  evidently  much  wearied." 

"It's  hard  work,  Mrs.  Partridge,"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  it  is  rather  hard.  But  I  am  thank 
ful  for  health  and  strength  to  enable  me  to  go  through 
with  it.  I  know  some  poor  women  who  have  to 
work  as  hard  as  I  do,  and  yet  do  not  know  what  it  is 
to  feel  well  for  an  hour  at  a  time." 

"  Poor  creatures !"  said  I.  "  It  is  very  hard  !  How 
in  the  world  can  they  do  it?" 

"  We  can  do  a  great  deal,  ma'am,  when  it  comes 
to  the  pinch;  and  it  is  much  pleasanter  to  do,  I  find, 
than  to  think  about  it.  If  I  were  to  think  much 


A  LESSON   OF  PATIENCE.  19 

I  should  give  up  in  despair.  But  I  pray  the  Lord 
each  morning  to  give  me  my  daily  bread,  and  thus 
far  he  has  done  it,  and  will,  I  am  sure,  continue  to 
do  it  to  the  end." 

"  Happy  it  is  for  you  that  you  can  so  think  and 
feel,"  I  replied.  "But  I  am  sure  I  could  not  be  as 
you  are,  Mrs.  Partridge.  It  would  kill  me." 

"  I  sincerely  trust,  ma'am,  that  you  will  never  be 
called  to  pass  through  what  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Par 
tridge.  "  And  yet  there  are  those  who  have  it  still 
harder.  There  was  a  time  when  the  thought  of 
being  as  poor  as  I  now  am,  and  of  having  to  work 
so  hard,  would  have  been  terrible  to  me;  and  yet  I 
do  .not  know  that  I  was  so  very  much  happier  then 
than  I  am  now,  though  I  confess  I  ought  to  have 
been.  I  had  full  and  plenty  of  every  thing  brought 
into  the  house  by  my  husband,  and  had  only  to  dis 
pense  in  my  family  the  blessings  of  God  sent  to  us. 
But  I  let  things  annoy  me  then  more  than  they  do 
now." 

"  But  how  can  you  help  being  worried,  Mrs.  Par 
tridge  ?  To  be  away  from  my  children  as  you  have 
been  away  from  yours  all  day  would  set  me  wild. 
I  would  be  sure  some  of  them  would  be  killed  or 
dreadfully  hurt." 

"  Children  are  wonderfully  protected,"  said  Mrs 
Partridge,  in  a  confident  voice. 

"  So  they  are.    But  to  think  of  four  little  children, 


'20  A   LESSON   OP  PATIENCE. 


the  youngest  eleven  months  and  the  oldest  not  ten 
years  old,  left  all  alone,  for  a  whole  day !" 

"  It  is  bad  when  we  think  about  it,  I  know,"  re- 
turned  Mrs.  Partridge.  "  It  looks  very  bad !  But 
I  try  and  put  that  view  of  it  out  of  my  mind.  When 
I  leave  them  in  the  morning  they  say  they  will  be 
good  children.  At  dinner  time  I  sometimes  find 

O 

them  all  fast  asleep  or  playing  about.  I  never  find 
them  crying,  or  at  all  unhappy.  Jane  loves  the 
younger  ones,  and  keeps  them  pleased  all  the  time. 
In  the  evening,  when  I  get  back  from  my  work,  there 
is  generally  no  one  awake  but  Jane.  She  has  given 
them  the  bread  and  milk  I  left  for  their  suppers, 
and  undressed  and  put  them  to  bed." 

"  Dear  little  girl !  What  a  treasure  she  must  be !" 
I  could  not  help  saying. 

"  She  is,  indeed.  I  don't  see  how  I  could  get 
along  without  her." 

"  You  could  not  get  along  at  all." 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  could.  Some  way  would  be 
provided  for  me,"  was  the  confident  reply. 

I  looked  into  the  poor  woman's  face  with  wonder 
and  admiration.  So  patient,  so  trustful,  and  yet  so 
very  poor.  The  expression  of  her  countenance  was 
beautiful  in  its  calm  religious  hope,  and  it  struck 
me  more  than  ever  as  familiar. 

"  Did  I  ever  see  you  before,  Mrs.  Partridge  ?"  I 
asked. 

"Indeed,  ma'am,  I  don't  know.   I  am  sure  I  have 


A  LESSON   OF   PATIENCE.  21 

seen  you  somewhere.  No,  now  I  recollect ;  it  is  your 
likeness  to  a  young  schoolmate  that  makes  your  face 
so  familiar.  How  much  you  do  favour  her,  now  I 
look  at  you  more  closely." 

"  What  was  her  name  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Her  name  was  Flora  S ." 

"  Indeed !     Why,  that  was  my  name  !" 

"  Your  name  !  Did  you  go  to  Madame  Martier's 
school  ?" 

"I  did." 

"And  can  you  indeed  be  my  old  schoolmate, 
Flora  S ?" 

"  My  maiden  name  was  Flora  S ,  and  I  went 

to  Madame  Martier's.  Your  face  is  also  familiar, 
but  how  to  place  you  I  do  not  know." 

"Don't  you  remember  Helen  Sprague?" 

"  Helen  Sprague  !  This  can't  be  Helen  Sprague, 
surely  !  Yes  !  I  remember  now.  Why,  Helen  ?" 
and  I  stepped  forward  and  grasped  her  hand.  "  I 
am  both  glad  and  sorry  to  see  you.  To  think  that, 
after  the  lapse  of  fifteen  years,  we  should  meet  thus ! 
How  in  the  world  is  it  that  fortune  has  been  so  un 
kind  to  you  ?  I  remember  hearing  it  said  that  you 
had  married  very  well." 

"  I  certainly  never  had  cause  to  regret  my  mar 
riage,"  replied  Mrs.  Partridge,  with  more  feeling 
than  she  had  yet  shown.  "  While  my  husband 
lived  I  had  every  external  blessing  that  I  could  ask. 
But,  just  before  he  died,  somehow  or  other  ^e  gol 


22  A   LESSON   OF   PATIENCE. 

behind-hand  in  his  business,  and  after  his  death, 
there  being  no  one  to  see  to  things,  what  he  left  was 
seized  upon  and  sold,  leaving  me  friendless  and 
almost  penniless.  Since  then,  the  effort  to  get  food 
and  clothes  for  my  children  has  been  so  constant 
and  earnest,  that  I  have  scarcely  had  time  to  sit 
down  and  grieve  over  my  losses  and  sufferings.  It 
is  one  perpetual  struggle  for  life.  And  yet,  though 
I  cannot  now  keep  the  tears  from  my  eyes,  I  will 
not  say  that  I  am  unhappy.  Thus  far,  all  things 
necessary  for  me  have  come.  I  yet  have  my  little 
flock  together,  and  a  place  that  bears  the  sacred 
name  of  home." 

I  looked  into  Helen's  face,  over  which  tears  were 
falling,  and  wondered  if  I  were  not  dreaming.  At 
school  she  had  been  the  favourite  of  all,  she  was  so 
full  of  good  humour,  and  had  such  a  cheerful,  peace- 
loving  spirit.  Her  parents  were  poor,  but  respect 
able  people,  who  died  when  Helen  was  fifteen  years 
old.  She  was  then  taken  from  school,  and  I  never 
saw  her  afterward  until  she  came  to  my  house  in 
the  capacity  of  a  washerwoman,  hundreds  of  miles 
uway  from  the  scenes  of  our  early  years. 

"  But  can't  you  find  easier  work  than  washing  ?" 
I  asked.  "  Are  you  not  handy  with  your  needle  ?" 

"  The  only  work  I  have  been  able  to  get  has  been 
from  the  clothing  men,  and  they  pay  so  little  that  I 
can't  live  on  it." 

'•'  Can  you  do  fine  sewing  ?"  I  asked. 


A   LESSON   OF  PATIENCE.  23 

"  Yes,  I  call  myself  handy  with  my  needle/' 

"  Can  you  make  children's  clothes  ?" 

"Boy's  clothes?" 

"No.     Girl's  clothing." 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  I'm  very  much  in  want  of  some  one.  My  child 
ren  are  all  in" — rags  and  tatters  I  was  going  to  say, 
but  I  checked  myself— "  are  all  in  need  of  clothes, 
and  so  far  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  anybody  to 
sew  for  me.  If  you  like,  I  will  give  you  three  or 
four  weeks'  sewing  at  least." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  it,  and  very  thank 
ful  for  your  kindness  in  offering  it  to  me,"  returned 
Mrs.  Partridge,  rising  from  her  chair,  and  adding 
as  she  did  so — 

11  But  I  must  be  getting  home.  It  is  nearly  dark, 
and  Jane  will  be  anxious  to  see  me  back  again." 

I  handed  her  the  seventy-five  cents  she  had 
earned  for  washing  for  me  during  a  whole  day. 
Promising  to  come  over  and  see  me  early  in  the 
morning  about  the  sewing,  she  withdrew,  and  I  was 
left  again  to  my  own  reflections. 

"  If  ever  a  murmurer  and  complainer  received  a 
severe  rebuke,  it  is  I !"  was  the  first  almost  audible 
thought  that  passed  through  my  mind.  "  To  think 
that  I,  with  my  cup  full  and  running  over  with 
blessings,  should  make  myself  and  all  around  me 
unhappy,  because  a  few  minor  things  are  not  just 
to  my  satisfaction,  while  this  woman,  who  toils  like  a 


24  A   LESSON   OF  PATIENCE. 


slave  from  morning  until  night,  and  who  can  hardly 
procure  food  and  clothing  for  her  children,  from  whom 
she  is  almost  constantly  separated,  is  patient  and  hope 
ful,  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  deserved  to  lose  what  I 
have  refused  to  enjoy." 

On  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Partridge  called  quite 
early.  She  cut  and  fitted  several  frocks  for  the 
children,  at  which  work  she  seemed  very  handy, 
and  then  took  them  home  to  make.  She  sewed  for 
me  five  weeks,  and  then  got  work  in  another  family 
where  I  recommended  her.  Since  then,  she  has  been 
kept  constantly  employed  in  sewing,  at  good  prices, 
by  about  six  families.  In  all  of  these  I  have  spoken 
of  her  and  created  an  interest  in  her  favour.  The 
mere  wages  that  she  earns  is  much  less  than  what 
she  really  receives.  All  her  children's  clothes  are 
given  to  her,  and  she  receives  many  a  bag  of  meal 
and  load  of  coal  without  knowing  from  whence  it 
comes.  In  fact,  her  condition  is  more  comfortable 
in  every  way  than  it  was,  and,  in  fact,  so  is  mine. 
The  lesson  of  patience  I  learned  from  Mrs.  Partridge 
in  my  first,  and  in  many  subsequent  interviews,  im 
pressed  itself  deeply  upon  my  mind,  and  caused  me 
to  look  at  and  value  the  good  I  had,  rather  than 
fret  over  the  few  occurrences  that  were  not  altogether 
to  my  wishes.  I  saw,  too,  how  the  small  trouble 
to  me  had  been  the  means  of  working  out  a  great 
good  to  her.  My  need  of  a  washerwoman,  about 
which  I  had  been  so  annoyed,  and  the  temporary 


A   LESSON   OF  PATIENCE.  25 


want  of  a  seamstress  which  I  had- experienced — light 
things  as  they  should  have  been — led  me  to  search 
about  for  aid,  and,  providentially,  to  fall  upon  Mrs. 
Partridge,  who  needed  just  what  it  was  in  my  power 
to  do  for  her. 

Whenever  I  find  myself  falling  into  my  old  habit, 
which  I  am  sorry  to  say  is  too  frequently  the  case, 
I  turn  my  thoughts  to  this  poor  woman,  who  is  still 
toiling  on  under  heavy  life-burdens,  yet  with  meek 
ness  and  patience,  and  bowing  my  head  in  shame, 
say — 

"If  she  is  thankful  for  the  good  she  has,  how 
deep  should  be  my  gratitude  I" 


I  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT. 


MR.  LAWSON,  the  tailor,  was  considered  a  very 
good  member  of  society.  He  was  industrious,  paid 
what  he  owed,  was  a  kind  husband  and  father  and  a 
pleasant  and  considerate  neighbour.  He  was,  more 
over,  attached  to  the  church,  and,  by  his  brethren  in 
the  faith,  considered  a  pious  and  good  man.  And, 
to  s*ay  the  truth,  Mr.  Lawson  would  compare  favour 
ably  with  most  people. 

One  day  as  Mr.  Lawson  stood  at  his  cutting 
board,  shears  in  hand,  a  poorly  dressed  young  woman 
entered  his  shop,  and  approaching  him,  asked,  with 
some  embarrassment  and  timidity,  if  he  had  any 
work  to  give  out. 

"  What  can  you  do  ?"  asked  the  tailor,  looking 
rather  coldly  upon  his  visitor. 

"  I  can  make  pantaloons  and  vests/'  replied  the 

girl-" 

"  Have  you  ever  worked  for  the  merchant  tai 
lors?" 

'<  Yes,  sir,  I  worked  for  Mr.  Wright." 
"  Hasn't  he  any  thing  for  you  to  do  ?" 
26 


i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT.  27 

"No,  not  just  now.     He  has  regular  hands  who 
always  get  the  preference/' 
"  Did  your  work  suit  him  ?" 
"  He  never  found  fault  with  it." 
"  Where  do  you  live  ?" 

"In  Cherry  street/'  replied  the  young  woman 
"At  No.  — ." 

Mr.  Lawson  stood  and  mused  for  a  short  time. 
"  I  have  a  vest  here/'  he  at  length  said,  taking  a 
small  bundle  from  a  shelf,  "  which  I  want  by  to 
morrow  evening  at  the  latest.  If  you  think  you 
can  make  it  very  neatly,  and  have  it  done  in  time, 
you  can  take  it." 

"It  shall  be  done  in  time/'  said  the  young 
woman,  reaching  out  eagerly  for  the  bundle. 

"And  remember,  I  shall  expect  it  made  well. 
If  I  like  your  work,  I  will  give  you  more." 

"  I  will  try  to  please  you/'  returned  the  girl,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  To-morrow  evening,  recollect." 
"  Yes,  sir.     I  will  have  it  done." 
The  girl  turned  and  went  quickly  away.     As  she 
walked  along  hurriedly,  her  slender  form  bent  for 
ward,  and  there  was  an  unsteadiness  in  her  steps,  as 
if  from  weakness.     She  did  not  linger  a  moment, 
nor  heed  any  thing  that  was  passing  in  the  street. 

A  back  room  in  the  third  story  of  an  old  house 
in  Cherry  street  was  the  home  of  the  poor  sewing 
girl.  As  she  entered,  she  said,  in  a  cheerful  voice. 


28  i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT. 

to  a  person  who  was  lying  upon  a  bed  which  the 
room  contained  — 

"I  have  got  work,  sister.  It  is  a  vest,  and  it 
must  be  done  by  to-morrow  evening." 

"  Can  you  finish  it  in  time  ?"  inquired  the  invalid 
in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Oh,  yes,  easily  ;"  and  as  she  spoke,  she  laid  off 
her  bonnet  and  shawl  hurriedly  and  sat  down  to  un 
roll  the  work  she  had  obtained. 

The  vest  proved  to  be  of  white  Marseilles.  As 
soon  as  the  invalid  sister  saw  this,  she  said  — 

"  I'm  afraid  you  won't  be  able  to  get  that  done 
in  time,  Ellen;  it  is  very  particular  work.  To 
stitch  the  edges  well  will  alone  take  you  many 
hours." 

"I  will  sit  up  late,  and  get  a  fair  start  to-night, 
Mary.  Then  I  can  easily  finish  it  in  time.  You 
know  a  vest  is  only  a  day's  work  for  a  good  sewer, 
and  I  have  nearly  a  day  and  a  half  before  me." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  must  remember,  Ellen,  that  you 
are  not  very  fast  with  your  needle,  and  are,  besides, 
far  from  being  well.  The  work,  too,  is  of  the  most 
particular  kind,  and  cannot  be  hurried." 

"  Don't  fear  for  me  in  the  least,  Mary.  I  will 
do  all  I  have  engaged  to  do,"  and  the  young  woman, 
who  had  already  arranged  the  cut-out  garment, 
took  a  portion  of  it  in  her  lap  and  commenced  her 


The  two  sisters,  here  introduced,  were  poor,  in 


i  DIDN'T  THINK  or  THAT.  29 

bad  health,  and  without  friends.  Mary,  the  older, 
had  declined  rapidly  within  a  few  months,  and  be 
come  so  much  exhausted  as  to  be  obliged  to  keep 
her  bed  most  of  the  time.  The  task  of  providing 
for  the  wants  of  both  fell,  consequently,  upon  Ellen. 
Increased  exertion  was  more  than  her  delicate  frame 
could  well  endure.  Daily  were  the  vital  energies 
of  her  system  becoming  more  and  more  exhausted, 
a  fact  of  which  she  was  painfully  conscious,  and 
which  she,  with  studious  care,  sought  to  conceal 
from  Mary. 

When,  through  loss  of  friends  and  change  of  cir 
cumstances,  the  two  sisters  were  thrown  entirely 
dependent  upon  their  own  exertions  for  a  livelihood, 
they,  with  prudent  forethought,  immediately  ap 
plied  themselves  to  the  learning  of  a  trade  in 
order  to  have  the  means  of  support.  Confinement 
for  twelve  or  fourteen  hours  .a  day,  sitting  in  one 
position — a  great  change  for  them — could  not  long 
be  endured  without  producing  ill  effects  on  frail 
young  creatures  at  best.  Mary,  the  older,  failed 
first ;  and,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing,  had 
so  far  declined  as  to  be  little  more  than  the  shadow 
of  any  thing  earthly. 

With  her  own  unaided  hands,  Ellen  found  it  im 
possible  to  earn  enough  for  even  their  most  simple 
need.  Often  Mary  was  without  medicine,  because 
there  was  no  money  left  after  food  and  fuel  were 
bought.  More  and  more  earnestly  did  Ellen  apply 
3* 


30  i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT. 


herself  as  want  came  in  more  varied  shapes;  but  the 
returns  of  her  labour  became  daily  less  and  less  ade 
quate  to  meet  the  demands  of  nature. 

The  busy  season  had  passed,  and  trade  was  dull. 
Ellen  worked  for  only  two  merchant  tailors,  and 
with  them  she  was  considered  an  extra  hand. 
When  business  fell  off,  as  the  season  approached 
towards  mid-summer,  she  was  the  first  to  receive 
notice  that  no  more  work  could  be  given  out  for  the 
present.  With  a  disheartened  feeling  she  returned 
home  on  receiving  this  intelligence.  Mary  saw 
that  something  was  wrong  the  moment  she  entered, 
and  tenderly  inquired  the  cause  of  her  trouble.  On 
learning  what  it  was,  she  endeavoured  to  comfort  and 
assure  her,  but  to  little  purpose. 

As  soon  as  Ellen  could  regain  sufficient  compo 
sure  of  mind,  she  went  forth  in  search  of  work  at 
other  shops.  To  one  of  her  peculiar,  timid,  and 
shrinking  disposition  this  was  a  severe  trial.  But 
there  was  no  passing  it  by.  Three  days  elapsed, 
during  which  every  effort  to  get  work  proved  un 
successful.  Even  the  clothing  stores  had  nothing 
to  give  out  to  extra  hands. 

Reduced  to  their  last  penny,  Ellen  was  almost  in 
despair,  when  she  called  upon  Mr.  Lawson.  The 
garment  he  gave  her  to  make  seemed  to  her  like 
help  sent  from  heaven.  Cheerfully  did  she  work 
upon  it  until  a  late  hour  at  night,  and  she  was  ready 
to  resume  her  labour  with  the  rising  sun.  But,  as 


i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT.  31 

Mary  had  feared,  the  work  did  not  progress  alto 
gether  to  her  satisfaction.  She  had  never  made 
over  one  or  two  white  Marseilles  vests,  and  found 
that  she  was  not  so  well  skilled  in  the  art  of  neat 
and  accurate  stitching  as  was  required  to  give  the 
garment  a  beautiful  and  workmanlike  appearance. 
The  stitches  did  not  impress  themselves  along  the 
edges  with  the  accuracy  that  her  eye  told  her  was 
required,  and  she  was  troubled  to  find  that,  be  as 
careful  as  she  would,  the  pure  white  fabric  grew 
soiled  beneath  her  fingers.  Mary,  to  whom  she  fre 
quently  submitted  the  work,  tried  to  encourage  her; 
but  her  eyes  were  not  deceived. 

It  was  after  dark  when  Ellen  finished  the  gar 
ment.  She  was  weary  and  faint ;  for  she  had  taken 
no  food  since  morning,  and  had  been  bending  over 
her  work,  with  very  little  intermission,  the  whole 
day;  and  she  had  no  hope  of  receiving  any  thing 
more  to  do,  for  MJ*.  Lawson,  she  was  sure,  would  not 
be  pleased  with  the  way  the  vest  was  made.  But, 
want  of  every  thing,  and  particularly  food  for  herself 
and  sister,  made  the  sum  of  seventy-five  cents,  to  be 
received  for  the  garment,  a  little  treasure  in  her 
eyes ;  and  she  hurried  off  with  the  vest  the  moment 
it  was  finished. 

"  I  will  bring  home  a  little  tea,  sister,"  she  said, 
as  she  was  about  leaving ;  "  I  am  sure  a  cup  of  tea 
will  do  you  good ;  and  I  feel  as  if  it  would  revive 
and  strengthen  me." 


32  i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT. 

Mary  looked  at  Ellen  with  a  tender,  pitying  ex 
pression,  while  her  large  bright  eyes  shone  glassy 
in  the  dim  rays  sent  forth  by  a  poor  lamp ;  but  she 
did  not  reply.  She  had  a  gnawing  in  her  stomach, 
that  made  her  feel  faint,  and  a  most  earnest  craving 
for  nourishing  and  even  stimulating  food,  the  con 
sequence  of  long  abstinence  as  well  as  from  the 
peculiarity  of  her  disease.  But  she  did  not  breathe 
a  word  of  this  to  Ellen,  who  would,  she  knew,  ex 
pend  for  her  every  cent  of  the  money  she  was  about 
to  receive,  if  she  was  aware  of  the  morbid  appetite 
from  which  she  was  suffering. 

"I  will  be  back  soon/'  added  Ellen,  as  she  re 
tired  from  the  room. 

Mary  sighed  deeply  when  alone.  She  raised  her 
eyes  upwards  for  a  few  moments,  then  closing  them 
and  clasping  her  hands  tightly  together,  she  lay 
with  her  white  face  turned  towards  the  light,  more 
the  image  of  death  than  of  life. 

"  Here  it  is  past  eight  o'clock,  and  that  vest  is 
not  yet  in,"  said  Mr.  Lawson,  in  a  fretful  tone. 
"  I  had  my  doubts  about  the  girl  when  I  gave  it  to 
her.  But  she  looked  so  poor,  and  seemed  so  earnest 
about  work,  that  I  was  weak  enough  to  intrust  her 
with  the  garment.  But  I  will  take  care,  another 
time,  how  I  let  my  feeling  get  the  better  of  my 
judgment." 

Before  the  individual  had  time  to  reply,  Ellen 
came  in  with  the  vest,  and  laid  it  on  the  counter,  at 


i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT.  33 


which  the  tailor  was  standing.  She  said  nothing, 
neither  did  the  tailor  make  any  remark;  but  the 
latter  unfolded  the  vest  in  the  way  that  plainly 
showed  him  not  to  be  in  a  very  placid  frame  of 
mind. 

li  Goodness !"  he  ejaculated,  after  glancing  hur 
riedly  at  the  garment. 

The  girl  shrunk  back  from  the  counter,  and  looked 
frightened. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  pretty  job  for  one  to  bring  in  !" 
said  the  tailor,  in  an  excited  tone  of  voice.  "A 
pretty  job,  indeed!  It  looks  as  if  it  had  been 
dragged  through  a  duck  puddle.  And  such  work !" 

He  tossed  the  garment  from  him  in  angry  con 
tempt,  and  walked  away  to  the  back  part  of  the  shop, 
leaving  Ellen  standing  almost  as  still  as  a  statue. 

"  That  vest  was  to  have  been  home  to-night,"  he 
said,  as  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  "  Of  course, 
the  customer  will  be  disappointed  and  angry,  and  I 
shall  lose  him.  But  I  don't  care  half  so  much  for 
that,  as  I  do  for  not  being  able  to  keep  my  word 
with  him.  It  is  too  much  !" 

Ellen  would  have  instantly  retired,  but  the 
thought  of  her  sick  sister  forced  her  to  remain. 
She  felt  that  she  could  not  go  until  she  had  received 
the  price  of  making  the  vest,  for  their  money  was' 
all  gone,  and  they  had  no  food  in  the  house.  She 
had  lingered  for  a  little  while,  when  the  tailor  called 
out  to  her,  and  said — 


34  i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT. 


"  You  needn't  stand  there,  Miss  !  thinking  that  1 
am  going  to  pay  you  for  ruining  the  job.  It's  bad 
enough  to  lose  my  material,  and  customer  into  the 
bargain.  In  justice  you  should  be  made  to  pay  for 
the  vest.  But  there  is  no  hope  for  that.  So  take 
yourself  away  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  never  let 
me  set  eyes  on  you  again." 

Ellen  did  not  reply,  but  turned  away  slowly,  and, 
with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor  and  her  form  drooping, 
retired  from  the  shop.  After  she  had  gone,  Mr.  Law- 
son  returned  to  the  front  part  of  the  store,  and  taking 
up  the  vest,  brought  it  back  to  where  an  elderly  man 
was  sitting,  and  holding  it  towards  him,  said,  by  way  of 
apology  for  the  part  he  had  taken  in  the  little  scene  : 

"  That's  a  beautiful  article  for  a  gentleman  to 
wear — isn't  it?" 

The  man  made  no  reply,  and  the  tailor,  after  a 
pause,  added — 

"  I  refused  to  pay  her,  as  a  matter  of  principle. 
She  knew  she  couldn't  make  the  garment  when  she 
took  it  away.  She  will  be  more  careful  how  she 
tries  again  to  impose  herself  upon  customer  tailors 
as  a  good  vest  maker." 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  in  a  mild 
way,  "necessity  drove  her  to  you  for  work,  and 
tempted  her  to  undertake  a  job  that  required  greater 
skill  than  she  possessed.  She  certainly  looked  very 
poor." 

"  It  was  because  she  appeared  so  poor  and  misera- 


I  DIDN'T  THINK  or  THAT.  35 


ble  that  I  was  weak  enough  to  place  the  vest  in  her 
hands/'  replied  Mr.  Lawson;  in  a  less  severe  tone 
of  voice.  "  But  it  was  an  imposition  in  her  to  ask 
for  work  that  she  did  not  know  how  to  make." 

"  Brother  Lawson,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  who 
was  a  fellow  member  of  the  church,  "  we  should  not 
blame,  with  too  much  severity,  the  person  who,  in 
extreme  want,  undertakes  to  perform  work  for  which 
he  does  not  possess   the  requisite  skill.     The  fact 
that  a  young  girl,  like  the  one  who  was  just  here,  is 
willing,  in  her  extreme  poverty,  to  labour,  instead 
of  sinking  into  vice  and  idleness,  shows  her  to  pos 
sess  both  virtue  and  integrity  of  character,  and  these 
we  should  be  willing  to  encourage,  even  at  some 
sacrifice.     Work  is  slack  now,  as  you  are  aware, 
and  there  is  but  little  doubt  that  she  had  been  to 
many  places  seeking  employment  before  she  came 
to  you.     It  may  be — and  this  is  a  very  probable 
suggestion — that  she  did  not  come  to  you  for  work 
until  she,  and  those  who  may  be  dependent  upon 
the  meagre  returns  of  her  labour,  were  reduced  to 
the  utmost  extremity.     And,  it  may  be,  that  even 
their  next  meal  was  dependent  upon  the  receipt  of 
the  money  that  was  expected  to  be  paid  for  making 
the  vest  you  hold  in  your  hand.     The  expression  of 
her  face  as  she  turned  away,  and  her  slow,  lingering 
step  and  drooping  form,  as  she  left  the*  shop,  had  in 
them  a  language  which  told  me  of  all  this,  and  even 


i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT. 


A  great  change  came  over  the  tailor's  counte 
nance. 

"I  didn't  think  of  that/'  fell  in  a  low  tone  from 
his  lips. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  you  did,  brother  Lawson,"  said 
his  monitor.  "We  are  all  more  apt  to  think  of 
ourselves  than  of  others.  The  girl  promised  you 
the  vest  this  evening  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And,  so  far  as  that  was  concerned,  performed 
her  contract.  Is  the  vest  made  so  very  badly?" 

Mr.  Lawson  took  up  the  garment,  and  examined 
it  more  carefully. 

"  "Well,  I  can't  say  that  the  work  is  so  very  badly 
done.  But  it  is  dreadfully  soiled  and  rumpled,  and 
is  not  as  neat  a  job  as  it  should  be,  nor  at  all  such 
as  I  wished  it.  The  customer  for  whom  it  is  in 
tended  is  very  particular,  and  I  was  anxious  to 
please  him." 

"All  this  is  very  annoying,  of  course;  but  still 
we  should  always  be  ready  to  make  some  excuse  for 
the  short-comings  of  others.  There  is  no  telling 
under  how  many  disadvantages  the  poor  girl  may 
have  laboured  in  making  this  vest.  She  may  have 
had  a  sick  mother,  or  a  father,  or  sister  to  attend 
to,  which  constantly  interfered  with  and  interrupted 
her.  She  may  have  been  compelled,  from  this  cause, 
to  work  through  a  greater  part  of  the  night,  in  order 
to  keep  her  promise  to  you.  Under  such  circum- 


i  DIDN'T  THINK  OP  THAT.  37 

stances,  even  you  could  hardly  wonder  if  the  gar 
ment  were  not  made  well,  or  if  it  came  soiled  from 
her  hands.  And  even  you  could  hardly  find  it  in 
your  heart  to  speak  unkindly  to  the  poor  creature, 
much  less  turn  her  away  angrily,  and  without  the 
money  she  had  toiled  for  so  earnestly." 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that,"  was  murmured  in  a  low 
abstracted  voice. 

"  Who  could  wonder,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"  if  that  unhappy  girl,  deprived  of  the  reward  of 
honest  labour,  and  driven  angrily  away  as  you  drove 
her  just  now,  should  in  despair  step  aside  into  ruin, 
thus  sacrificing  herself,  body  and  soul,  in  order  to 
save  from  want  and  deprivation  those  she  could  not 
sustain  by  virtuous  toil  ?" 

"  I  didn't  think  of  that,"  fell  quick  and  in  an 
agitated  voice  from  the  tailor's  lips,  as,  dropping  the 
garment  he  held  in  his  hand,  he  hurried  around  his 
counter  and  left  the  shop. 

Ellen  was  not  tempted  as  the  friend  of  Mr.  Law- 
son  had  supposed;  but  there  are  hundreds  who, 
under  like  circumstances,  would  have  turned  aside. 
From  the  shop  of  the  tailor  she  went  slowly  home 
ward  ;  at  her  heart  was  a  feeling  of  utter  despond 
ency.  She  had  struggled  long,  in  weariness  and 
pain,  with  her  lot;  but  now  she  felt  that  the  strug 
gle  was  over.  The  hope  of  the  hour  had  failed,  and 
it  seemed  to  her  the  last  hope. 

When  Ellen  entered  the  room  where  her  sister 
4 


i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT. 


lay,  the  sight  of  her  expectant  face  (for  the  desire 
for  nourishing,  refreshing  food  had  been  stronger 
than  usual  with  Mary,  and  her  fancy  had  been 
dwelling  upon  the  pleasant  repast  that  was  soon  to 
be  spread  before  her)  made  the  task  of  communi 
cating  the  cruel  repulse  she  had  received  tenfold 
more  painful.  Without  uttering  a  word,  she  threw 
herself  upon  the  bed  beside  her  sister,  and,  burying 
her  face  in  a  pillow,  endeavoured  to  smother  the  sobs 
that  came  up  convulsively  from  her  bosom.  Mary 
asked  no  question.  She  understood  the  meaning  of 
Ellen's  agitation  well;  it  told  her  that  she  had  been 
disappointed  in  the  expectation  of  receiving  the 
money  for  her  work. 

Deep  silence  followed.  Mary  clasped  her  hands 
together  and  raised  her  eyes  upward,  while  Ellen 
lay  motionless  with  her  face  hidden  where  she  had 
first  concealed  it.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door, 
but  no  voice  bade  the  applicant  for  admission  enter. 
It  was  repeated;  but,  if  heard,  it  met  no  response. 
Then  the  latch  was  lifted,  the  door  swung  open,  and 
the  tailor  stepped  into  the  room.  The  sound  of  his 
feet  aroused  the  passive  sisters.  The  white  face  of 
Mary  was  to  him,  at  first,  a  startling  image  of  death ; 
but  her  large  bright  eyes  opened  and  turned  upon 
him  with  an  assurance  that  life  still  lingered  in  its 
earthly  tenement. 

11  Ellen,  Ellen,"  said  the  sick  girl,  faintly. 
Ellen,  too,  had  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  on 


i  DIDN'T  THINK  OF  THAT.  39 


the  floor,  and  she  now  raised  up  slowly,  and  present 
ed  to  Lawson  her  sad,  tearful  countenance. 

li  I  was  wrong  to  speak  to  you  as  I  did,"  said  the 
tailor  without  preface,  advancing  towards  the  bed 
and  holding  out  to  Ellen  the  money  she  had  earned. 
" There  is  the  price  of  the  vest;  it  is  better  made 
than  I  at  first  thought  it  was.  To-morrow  I  will 
send  you  more  work.  Try  and  cheer  up.  Are  you 
so  very  poor?" 

The  last  two  sentences  were  uttered  in  a  voice  of 
encouragement  and  sympathy.  Ellen  looked  her 
thankfulness,  but  did  not  venture  a  reply.  Her 
heart  was  too  full  to  trust  her  lips  with  utterance. 

Feeling  that  his  presence,  under  all  circumstances, 
could  not  but  be  embarrassing,  Mr.  Lawson,  after 
taking  two  or  three  dollars  from  his  pocket  and 
placing  them  on  the  table  with  the  remark — "  Take 
this  in  advance  for  work,"  retired  and  left  the  poor 
sisters  in  a  different  frame  of  mind  from  what  they 
were  in  when  he  entered.  Shortly  after  they  re 
ceived  a  basket,  in  which  was  a  supply  of  nourish 
ing  food.  Though  no  one's  name  was  sent  with  it, 
they  were  not  in  doubt  as  to  whence  it  came. 

Mr.  Lawson  was  not  an  unfeeling  man,  but,  like 
too  many  others  in  the  world,  he  did  not  always 
"think." 


TAKING  BOARDERS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  LADY,  past  the  prime  of  life,  sat  thoughtful,  as 
twilight  fell  duskily  around  her,  in  a  room  furnished 
with  great  elegance.  That  her  thoughts  were  far 
from  being  pleasant,  the  sober,  even  sad  expression 
of  her  countenance  too  clearly  testified.  She  was 
dressed  in  deep  mourning.  A  faint  sigh  parted  her 
lips  as  she  looked  up,  on  hearing  the  door,  of  the 
apartment  in  which  she  was  sitting  open.  The 
person  who  entered,  a  tall  and  beautiful  girl,  also 
in  mourning,  came  and  sat  down  by  her  side,  and 
leaned  her  head,  with  a  pensive,  troubled  air,  down 
upon  her  shoulder. 

"We  must  decide  upon  something,  Edith,  and 
that  with  as  little  delay  as  possible/'  said  the  elder 
of  the  two  ladies,  soon  after  the  younger  one  enter 
ed.  This  was  said  in  a  tone  of  great  despondency. 

"Upon  what  shall  we  decide,  mother?"  and  the 
young  lady  raised  her  head  from  its  reclining  posi 
tion,  and  looked  earnestly  into  the  eyes  of  her  pa« 
rent. 
40 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  41 

"  We  must  decide  to  do  something  by  which  the 
family  can  be  sustained.  Your  father's  death  has 
left  us,  unfortunately  and  unexpectedly,  as  you  al 
ready  know,  with  scarcely  a  thousand  dollars  beyond 
the  furniture  of  this  house,  instead  of  an  independ 
ence  which  we  supposed  him  to  possess.  His  death 
was  sad  and  afflictive  enough — more  than  it  seemed 
I  could  bear.  But  to  have  this  added  !" 

The  voice  of  the  speaker  sank  into  a  low  moan, 
and  was  lost  in  a  stifled  sob. 

"  But  what  can  we  do,  mother  ?"  asked  Edith,  in 
an  earnest  tone,  after  pausing  long  enough  for  her 
mother  to  regain  the  control  of  her  feelings. 

"  I  have  thought  of  but  one  thing  that  is  at  all 
respectable,"  replied  the  mother. 
" What  is  that?" 
"Taking  boarders." 

"  Why,  mother !"  ejaculated  Edith,  evincing  great 
surprise,  "  how  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing  ?" 

"  Because  driven  to  do  so  by  the  force  of  circum 
stances." 

"  Taking  boarders  !  Keeping  a  boarding-house  ! 
Surely  we  have  not  come  to  this !" 

An  expression  of  distress  blended  with  the  look 
of  astonishment  in  Edith's  face. 

"  There  is  nothing  disgraceful  in  keeping  a  board 
ing-house,"  returned  the  mother.     "  A  great  many 
very  respectable  ladies  have  been  compelled  to  resort 
to  it  as  a  means  of  supporting  their  families." 
4* 


42  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


"  But  to  think  of  it,  mother !  To  think  of  your 
keeping  a  boarding-house  !  I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  Is  there  any  thing  else  that  can  be  done,  Edith  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me  such  a  question." 

"  If,  then,  you  cannot  think  for  me,  you  must  try 
and  think  with  me,  my  child.  Something  will  have 
to  be  done  to  create  an  income.  In  less  than  twelve 
months,  every  dollar  I  have  will  be  expended ;  and 
then  what  are  we  to  do  ?  Now,  Edith,  is  the  time 
for  us  to  look  at  the  matter  earnestly,  and  to  deter 
mine  the  course  we  will  take.  There  is  no  use  to 
look  away  from  it.  A  good  house  in  a  central  situ 
ation,  large  enough  for  the  purpose,  can  no  doubt 
be  obtained;  and  I  think  there  will  be  no  difficulty 
about  our  getting  boarders  enough  to  fill  it.  The 
income  or  profit  from  these  will  enable  us  still  to 
live  comfortably,  and  keep  Edward  and  Ellen  at 
school." 

"  It  is  hard,"  was  the  only  remark  Edith  made 
to  this. 

"It  is  hard,  my  daughter ;  very  hard !  I  have 
thought  and  thought  about  it  until  my  whole  mind 
has  been  thrown  into  confusion.  But  it  will  not  do 
to  think  for  ever;  there  must  be  action.  Can  I  see 
want  stealing  in  upon  my  children,  and  sit  and  fold 
my  hands  supinely  ?  No !  And  to  you,  Edith,  my 
oldest  child,  I  look  for  aid  and  for  counsel.  Stand 
up  bravely  by  my  side." 

"And  you  are  in  earnest  in  all  this?"  said  Edith, 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  43 


whose  mind  seemed  hardly  able  to  realize  the  truth 
of  their  position.  From  her  earliest  days,  all  the 
blessings  that  money  could  procure  had  been  freely 
scattered  around  her  feet.  As  she  grew  up  and 
advanced  towards  womanhood,  she  had  moved  in 
the  most  fashionable  circles,  and  there  acquired  the 
habit  of  estimating  people  according  to  their  wealth 
and  social  standing,  rather  than  by  qualities  of  mind. 
In  her  view,  it  appeared  degrading  in  a  woman  to 
enter  upon  any  kind  of  employment  for  money  ]  and 
with  the  keeper  of  a  boarding-house,  particularly, 
she  had  always  associated  something  low,  vulgar, 
and  ungenteel.  At  the  thought  of  her  mother's  en 
gaging  in  such  an  occupation,  when  the  suggestion 
was  made,  her  mind  instantly  revolted.  It  appeared 
to  her  as  if  disgrace  would  be  the  inevitable  conse 
quence. 

"And  you  are  in  earnest  in  all  this?"  was  an 
expression  mingling  her  clear  conviction  of  the  truth 
of  what  at  first  appeared  so  strange  a  proposition, 
and  her  astonishment  that  the  necessities  of  their 
situation  were  such  as  to  drive  them  to  so  humili 
ating  a  resource. 

"  Deeply  in  earnest,"  was  the  mother's  reply. 
"  We  are  left  alone  in  the  world.  He  who  cared  for 
us  and  provided  for  us  so  liberally  has  been  taken 
away,  and  we  have  nowhere  to  look  for  aid  but  to 
the  resources  that  are  in  ourselves.  These,  well 
applied,  will  give  us;  I  feel  strongly  assured,  all  that 


44  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


we  need.  The  thing  to  decide  is,  what  we  ought  to 
do.  If  we  choose  aright,  all  will  doubtless  come 
out  right  To  choose  aright  is,  therefore,  of  the  first 
importance;  and  to  do  this,  we  must  not  suffer  dis 
torting  suggestions  nor  the  appeals  of  a  false  pride 
to  influence  our  minds  in  the  least.  You  are  my 
oldest  child,  Edith ;  and,  as  such,  I  cannot  but  look 
upon  you  as,  to  some  extent,  jointly  with  me,  the 
guardian  of  your  younger  brothers  and  sisters.  True, 
Miriam  is  of  age,  and  Henry  nearly  so;  but  still 
you  are  the  eldest — your  mind  is  more  matured,  and 
in  your  judgment  I  have  the  most  confidence.  Try 
and  forget,  Edith,  all  but  the  fact  that,  unless  we 
make  an  exertion,  one  home  for  all  cannot  be  re 
tained.  Are  you  willing  that  we  should  be  scattered 
like  leaves  in  the  autumn  wind  ?  No !  you  would 
consider  that  one  of  the  greatest  calamities  that  could 
befall  us — an  evil  to  prevent  which  we  should  use 
every  effort  in  our  power.  Do  you  not  see  tfiis 
clearly?" 

"  I  do,  mother,"  was  replied  by  Edith  in  a  more 
rational  tone  of  voice  than  that  in  which  she  had  yet 
spoken. 

"  To  open  a  store  of  any  kind  would  involve  five 
times  the  exposure  of  a  boarding-house;  and,  more 
over,  I  know  nothing  of  business." 

"  Keeping  a  store  ?  Oh,  no !  we  couldn't  do  that. 
Think  of  the  dreadful  exposure !" 

"But  in  taking  boarders  we  only  increase  our 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  45 

family,  and  all  goes  on  as  usual.  To  my  mind,  it 
is  the  most  genteel  thing  that  we  can  do.  Our  style 
of  living  will  be  the  same ;  our  waiter  and  all  our 
servants  will  be  retained.  In  fact,  to  the  eye  there 
will  be  little  change,  and  the  world  need  never  know 
how  greatly  reduced  our  Circumstances  have  become." 

This  mode  of  argument  tended  to  reconcile  Edith 
to  taking  boarders.  Something,  she  saw,  had  to  be 
done.  Opening  a  store  was  felt  to  be  out  of  the 
question;  and  as  to  commencing  a  school,  the  thought 
was  repulsed  at  the  very  first  suggestion. 

A  few  friends  were  consulted  on  the  subject,  and 
all  agreed  that  the  best  thing  for  the  widow  to  do 
was  to  take  boarders.  Each  one  could  point  to  some 
lady  who  had  commenced  the  business  with  far  less 
ability  to  make  boarders  comfortable,  and  who  had 
yet  got  along  very  well.  It  was  conceded  on  all 
hands  that  it  was  a  very  genteel  business,  and  that 
some  of  the  first  ladies  had  been  compelled  to  resort 
to  it,  without  being  any  the  less  respected.  Almost 
every  one  to  whom  the  matter  was  referred  spoke 
in  favour  of  the  thing,  and  but  a  single  individual 
suggested  difficulty;  but  what  he  said  was  not  per 
mitted  to  have  much  weight.  This  individual  was 
a  brother  of  the  widow,  who  had  always  been  looked 
upon  as  rather  eccentric.  He  was  a  bachelor  and 
without  fortune,  merely  enjoying  a  moderate  income 
as  book-keeper  in  the  office  -of  an  insurance  com- 
pany.  But  more  of  him  hereafter. 


46  TAKING  BOARDERS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MRS.  DARLINGTON,  the  widow  we  have  just  intro 
duced  to  the  reader,  had  five  children.  Edith,  the 
oldest  daughter,  was  twenty-two  years  of  age  at  the 
time  of  her  father's  death ;  and  Henry,  the  oldest 
son,  just  twenty.  Next  to  Henry  was  Miriam, 
eighteen  years  old.  The  ages  of  the  two  youngest 
children,  Ellen  and  Edward,  were  ten  and  eight. 

Mr.  Darlington,  while  living,  was  a  lawyer  of  dis 
tinguished  ability,  and  his  talents  and  reputation  at 
the  Philadelphia  bar  enabled  him  to  accumulate  a 
handsome  fortune.  Upon  this  he  had  lived  for  some 
years  in  a  style  of  great  elegance.  About  a  year 
before  his  death,  he  had  been  induced  to  enter  into 
some  speculation  that  promised  great  results;  but 
he  found,  when  too  late  to  retreat,  that  he  had  been 
greatly  deceived.  Heavy  losses  soon  followed.  In 
a  struggle  to  recover  himself,  he  became  still  further 
involved ;  and,  ere  the  expiration  of  a  twelvemonth, 
saw  every  thing  falling  from  under  him.  The  trouble 
brought  on  by  this  was  the  real  cause  of  his  death, 
which  was  sudden,  and  resulted  from  inflammation 
and  congestion  of  the  brain. 

Henry  Darlington,  the  oldest  son,  was  a  young 
man  of  promising  talents.  He  remained  at  college 
until  a  few  months  before  his  father's  death,  wheu 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  47 

he  returned  home  and  commenced  the  study  of  law, 
in  which  he  felt  ambitious  to  distinguish  himself. 

Edith,  the  oldest  daughter,  possessed  a  fine  mind, 
which  had  been  well  educated.  She  had  some  false 
views  of  life,  natural  to  her  position;  but,  apart  from 
this,  was  a  girl  of  sound  sense  and  great  force  of 
Character.  Thus  far  in  life  she  had  not  encountered 
circumstances  of  a  nature  calculated  to  develop 
what  was  in  her.  The  time  for  that,  however,  was 
approaching.  Miriam,  her  sister,  was  a  quiet,  gentle, 
retiring,  almost  timid  girl.  She  went  into  company 
with  reluctance,  and  then  always  shrunk  as  far  from 
observation  as  it  was  possible  to  get ;  but,  like  most 
quiet,  retiring  persons,  there  were  deep  places  in  her 
mind  and  heart.  She  thought  and  felt  more  than 
was  supposed.  All  who  knew  Miriam  loved  her. 
Of  the  younger  children  we  need  not  here  speak. 

Mrs.  Darlington  knew  comparatively  nothing  of 
the  world  beyond  her  own  social  circle.  She  was, 
perhaps,  as  little  calculated  for  doing  what  she  pro 
posed  to  do  as  a  woman  could  well  be.  She  had  no 
habits  of  economy,  and  had  never  in  her  life  been 
called  upon  to  make  calculations  of  expense  in  house 
hold  matters.  There  was  a  tendency  to  generosity 
rather  than  selfishness  in  her  character,  and  she 
rarely  thought  evil  of  any  one.  But  all  that  she 
was  need  not  here  be  set  forth,  for  it  will  appear  as 
our  narrative  progresses. 

Mr.  Hiram  Ellis,  the  brother  of  Mrs.  Darlington, 


48  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


to  whom  brief  allusion  has  been  made,  was  not  a 
great  favourite  in  the  family — although  Mr.  Darling 
ton  understood  his  good  qualities,  and  very  highly 
respected  him — because  he  had  not  much  that  was 
prepossessing  in  his  external  appearance,  and  was 
thought  to  be  a  little  eccentric.  Moreover,  he  was 
not  rich — merely  holding  the  place  of  book-keeper 
in  an  insurance  office,  at  a  moderate  salary.  But 
as  he  had  never  married,  and  had  only  himself  to 
support,  his  income  supplied  amply  all  his  wants, 
and  left  him  a  small  annual  surplus. 

After  the  death  of  Mr.  Darlington,  he  visited  his 
sister  much  more  frequently  than  before.  Of  the 
exact  condition  of  her  affairs,  he  was  much  better 
acquainted  than  she  supposed.  The  anxiety  which 
she  felt,  some  months  after  her  husband's  death, 
when  the  result  of  the  settlement  of  his  estate  be 
came  known,  led  her  to  be  rather  more  communi 
cative.  After  determining  to  open  a  boarding-house, 
she  said  to  him,  on  the  occasion  of  his  visiting  her 
one  evening — 

"As  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  do  something,  Hiram., 
I  have  concluded  to  move  to  a  better  location,  and 
take  a  few  boarders/' 

"  Don't  do  any  such  thing,  Margaret,"  her  brother 
made  answer.  "Taking  boarders!  It's  the  last 
thing  of  which  a  woman  should  think." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  Hiram  ?';  asked  Mrs. 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  49 


Darlington,  evincing  no  little  surprise  at  this  unex 
pected  reply. 

"  Because  I  think  that  a  woman  who  has  a  living 
to  make  can  hardly  try  a  more  doubtful  experiment. 
Not  one  in  ten  ever  succeeds  in  doing  any  thing." 

"  But  why,  Hiram  ?  "Why  ?  I'm  sure  a  great 
many  ladies  get  a  living  in  that  way." 

"  What  you  will  never  do,  Margaret,  mark  my 
words  for  it.  It  takes  a  woman  of  shrewdness,  cau 
tion,  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  one  thorough 
ly  versed  in  household  economy,  to  get  along  in  this 
pursuit.  Even  if  you  possessed  all  these  prerequi 
sites  to  success,  you  have  just  the  family  that  ought 
not  to  come  in  contact  with  anybody  and  everybody 
that  find  their  way  into  boarding-houses." 

"  I  must  do  something,  Hiram,"  said  Mrs.  Dar 
lington,  evincing  impatience  at  the  opposition  of  her 
brother. 

"  I  perfectly  agree  with  you  in  that,  Margaret," 
replied  Mr.  Ellis.  "  The  only  doubt  is  as  to  your 
choice  of  occupation.  You  think  that  your  best 
plan  will  be  to  take  boarders ;  while  I  think  you 
could  not  fall  upon  a  worse  expedient." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Have  I  not  just  said  ?" 

"  What  ?" 

"  Why,  that,  in  the  first  place,  it  takes  a  woman 
of  great  shrewdness,  caution,  and  knowledge  of  the 
5 


50  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

world,  and   one   thoroughly   versed   in   household 
economy,  to  succeed  in  the  business." 

"  I'm  not  a  fool,  Hiram  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dar 
lington,  losing  her  self-command. 

"  Perhaps  you  may  alter  your  opinion  on  that 
head  some  time  within  the  next  twelve  months," 
coolly  returned  Mr.  Ellis,  rising  and  beginning  to 
button  up  his  coat. 

«  Such  language  to  me,  at  this  time,  is  cruel  1 
said  Mrs.  Darlington,  putting  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes. 

"  No/7  calmly  replied  her  brother,  "  not  cruel, 
but  kind.  I  wish  to  save  you  from  trouble." 

"What  else  can  I  do  ?"  asked  the  widow,  remov 
ing  the  handkerchief  from  her  face. 

"  Many  things,  I  was  going  to  say,"  returned  Mr. 
Ellis.  "But,  in  truth,  the  choice  of  employment 
is  not  very  great.  Still,  something  with  a  fairer 
promise  than  taking  boarders  may  be  found." 

"  If  you  can  point  me  to  some  better  way,  bro 
ther,"  said  Mrs.  Darlington,  "I  shall  feel  greatly 
indebted  to  you." 

"  Almost  any  thing  is  better.  Suppose  you  and 
Edith  were  to  open  a  school.  Both  of  you  are 

well ' 

"Open  a  school!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Darlington, 
interrupting  her  brother,  and  exhibiting  most  pro 
found  astonishment.  «  /  open  a  school !  I  didn't 


TAKING   BOAHDERS.  51 


think  you  would  take   advantage   of  my  grief  and 
misfortune  to  offer  me  an  insult." 

Mr.  Ellis  buttoned  the  top  button  of  his  coat 
nervously,  as  his  sister  said  this,  and,  partly  turning 
himself  towards  the  door,  said — 

"  Teaching  school  is  a  far  more  useful,  and,  if  you 
will,  more  respectable  employment,  than  keeping  a 
boarding-house.  This  you  ought  to  see  at  a  glance. 
As  a  teacher,  you  would  be  a  minister  of  truth  to 
the  mind,  and  have  it  in  your  power  to  bend  from 
evil  and  lead  to  good  the  young  immortals  committed 
to  your  care;  while,  as  a  boarding-house  keeper, 
you  would  merely  furnish  food  for  the  natural  body — • 
a  use  below  what  you  are  capable  of  rendering  to 
society/1 

But  Mrs.  Darlington  was  in  no  state  of  mind  to 
feel  the  force  of  such  an  argument.  From  the 
thought  of  a  school  she  shrunk  as  from  something 
degrading,  and  turned  from  it  with  displeasure. 

"  Don't  mention  such  a  thing  to  me,"  said  she 
fretfully,  "I  will  not  listen  to  the  proposition." 

"  Oh,  well,  Margaret,  as  you  please,"  replied  her 
brother,  now  moving  towards  the  door.  "  When 
you  ask  my  advice,  I  will  give  it  according  to  my 
best  judgment,  and  with  a  sincere  desire  for  your 
good.  If,  however,  it  conflicts  with  your  views, 
reject  it;  but,  in  simple  justice  to  me,  do  so  in  a 
better  spirit  than  you  manifest  on  the  present  occa 
sion.  Good  evening !" 


52  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

Mrs.  Darlington  was  too  much  disturbed  in  mind 
to  make  a  reply,  and  Mr.  Hiram  Ellis  left  the  room 
without  any  attempt  on  the  part  of  his  sister  to  de 
tain  him.  On  both  sides,  there  had  been  the  in 
dulgence  of  rather  more  impatience  and  intolerance 
than  was  commendable. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

IN  due  time,  Mrs.  Darlington  removed  to  a  house 
in  Arch  Street,  the  annual  rent  of  which  was  six 
hundred  dollars,  and  there  began  her  experiment. 
The  expense  of  a  removal,  and  the  cost  of  the  ad 
ditional  chamber  furniture  required,  exhausted  about 
two  hundred  dollars  of  the  widow's  slender  stock 
of  money,  and  caused  her  to  feel  a  little  troubled 
wlien  she  noticed  the  diminution. 

She  began  her  new  business  with  two  boarders,  a 
gentleman  and  his  wife  by  the  name  of  Grimes,  who 
had  entered  her  house  on  the  recommendation  of  a 
friend.  They  were  to  pay  her  the  sum  of  eight 
dollars  a  week.  A  young  man  named  Barling, 
clerk  in  a  wholesale  Market  Street  house,  came 
next ;  and  he  introduced,  soon  after,  a  friend  of  his, 
a  clerk  in  the  same  store,  named  Mason.  They 
were  room-mates,  and  paid  three  dollars  and  a  half 
each.  Three  or  four  weeks  elapsed  before  any 
further  additions  were  made  ;  then  an  advertisement 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  53 


brought  several  applications.  One  was  from  a  gen 
tleman  who  wanted  two  rooms  for  himself  and  wife; 
a  nurse  and  four  children.  He  wanted  the  second 
story  front  and  back  chambers,  furnished,  and  was 
not  willing  to  pay  over  sixteen  dollars,  although  his 
oldest  child  was  twelve  and  his  youngest  four  years 
of  age— seven  good  eaters  and  two  of  the  best  rooms 
in  the  house  for  sixteen  dollars  ! 

Mrs.  Darlington  demurred.     The  man  said 

"Very  well,  ma'am,"  in  a  tone  of  indifference. 
"I  can  find  plenty  of  accommodations  quite  as  good 
as  yours  for  the  price  I  offer.  It's  all  I  pay  now." 
Poor  Mrs.  Darlington  sighed.  She  had  but  fif 
teen  dollars  yet  in  the  house— that  is,  boarders  who 
paid  this  amount  weekly— and  the  rent  alone 
amounted  to  twelve  dollars.  Sixteen  dollars,  she 
argued  with  herself,  as  she  sat  with  her  eyes  upon 
the  floor,  would  make  a  great  difference  in  her  in 
come  ;  would,  in  fact,  meet  all  the  expenses  of  the 
house.  Two  good  rooms  would  still  remain,  and  all 
that  she  received  for  these  would  be  so  much  clear 
profit.  Such  was  the  hurried  conclusion  of  Mrs. 
Darlington's  mind. 

^  "  I  suppose  I  will  have  to  take  you,"  said  she, 
lifting  her  eyes  to  the  man's  hard  features.  "But 
those  rooms  ought  to  bring  me  twenty-four  dollars." 
"Sixteen  is  the  utmost  I  will  pay,"  replied  the 
man.  In  fact,  I  did  think  of  offering  only  four- 
teen  dollars.  «  But  the  rooms  are  fine,  and  I  like 


54  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


them.     Sixteen  is  a  liberal  price.     Your  terms  arc 
considerably  above  the  ordinary  range." 
The  widow  sighed  again. 

If  the  man  heard  this  sound,  it  did  not  touch  a 
single  chord  of  feeling. 

"  Then  it  is  understood  that  I  am  to  have  your 
rooms  at  sixteen  dollars  ?"  said  he. 
"  Yes,  sir.     I  will  take  you  for  that." 
"  Very  well.     My  name  is  Scragg.     We  will  be 
ready  to  come  in  on  Monday  next.     You  can  have 
all  prepared  for  us  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir." 

Scarcely  had  Mr.  Scragg  departed,  when  a  gen 
tleman  called  to  know  if  Mrs.  Darlington  had  a 
vacant  front  room  in  the  second  story. 

"  I  had  this  morning ;  but  it  is  taken,"  replied 
the  widow. 

«  Ah  !     I'm  sorry  for  that." 
"Will  not  a  third  story  front  room  suit  you?" 
"  No.     My  wife  is  not  in  very  good  health,  and 
wishes  a  second  story  room.     We  pay  twelve  dollars 
a  week,  and  would  even  give  more,  if  necessary,  to 
obtain  just  the  accommodations  we  like.     The  situa 
tion  of  your  house  pleases  me.     I'm  sorry  that  I 
happen  to  be  too  late." 

"  Will  you  look  at  the  room  ?"   said   Mrs.  Dar 
lington,  into  whose  mind  came  the  desire  to  break 
the  bad  bargain  she  had  just  made. 
"  If  you  please,"  returned  the  man. 


TAKING    BOARDERS.  55 


And  both  went  up  to  the  large  and  beautifully 
furnished  chambers. 

"  Just  the  thing !"  said  the  man,  as  he  looked 
around,  much  pleased  with  the  appearance  of  every 
thing.  "  But  I  understood  you  to  say  that  it  was 
taken." 

"Why,  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Darlington,  « I  did 
partly  engage  it  this  morning  •  but,  no  doubt,  I  can 
arrange  with  the  family  to  take  the  two  rooms  above, 
which  will  suit  them  just  as  well." 

"  If  you  can"— 

"  There'll  be  no  difficulty,  I  presume.  You'll 
pay  twelve  dollars  a  week  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Only  yourself  and  lady  ?" 

"  That's  all." 

"  Very  well,  sir;  you  can  have  the  room." 

"  It's  a  bargain,  then.  My  name  is  Ring.  Our 
week  is  up  to-day  where  we  are ;  and,  if  it  is  agree 
able,  we  will  become  your  guests  to-morrow." 

"  Perfectly  agreeable,  Mr.  Ring." 

The  gentleman  bowed  politely  and  retired. 

Now  Mrs.  Darlington  did  not  feel  very  comfort 
able  when  she  reflected  on  what  she  had  done.  The 
rooms  in  the  second  story  were  positively  engaged 
to  Mr.  Scragg,  and  now  one  of  them  was  as  posi 
tively  engaged  to  Mr.  Ring.  The  face  of  Mr. 
Scragg  she  remembered  very  well.  It  was  a  hard, 
sinister  face,  just  such  a  one  as  we  rarely  forget  be- 


56  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

cause  of  the  disagreeable  impression  it  makes.  As 
it  came  up  distinctly  before  the  eyes  of  her  mind, 
she  was  oppressed  with  a  sens<y  of  coming  trouble. 
Nor  did  she  feel  altogether  satisfied  with  what  she 
had  done — satisfied  in  her  own  conscience. 

On  the  next  morning,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ring  came 
and  took  possession  of  the  room  previously  engaged 
to  Mr.  Scragg.  They  were  pleasant  people,  and 
made  a  good  first  impression. 

As  day  after  day  glided  past,  Mrs.  Darlington 
felt  more  and  more  uneasy  about  Mr.  Scragg,  with 
whom,  she  had  a  decided  presentiment,  there  would 
be  trouble.  Had  she  known  where  to  find  him,  she 
would  have  sent  him  a  note,  saying  that  she  had 
ch'anged  her  mind  about  the  rooms,  and  could  not 
let  him  have  them.  But  she  was  ignorant  of  his 
address  j  and  the  only  thing  left  for  her  was  to  wait 
until  he  came  on  Monday,  and  then  get  over  the 
difficulty  in  the  best  way  possible.  She  and  Edith 
had  talked  over  the  matter  frequently,  and  had 
come  to  the  determination  to  ofier  Mr.  Scragg 
the  two  chambers  in  the  third  story  for  fourteen 
dollars. 

On  Monday  morning,  Mrs.  Darlington  was  ner 
vous.  This  was  the  day  on  which  Mr.  Scragg  and 
family  were  to  arrive,  and  she  felt  that  there  would 
be  trouble. 

Mr.  Ring,  and  the  other  gentlemen  boarders,  left 
soon  after  breakfast.  About  ten  o'clock,  the  door- 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  57 

bell  rang.  Mrs.  Darlington  was  in  her  room  at  the 
time  changing  her  dress.  Thinking  that  this  might 
be  the  announcement  of  Mr.  Scragg's  arrival,  she 
hurried  through  her  dressing  in  order  to  get  down 
to  the  parlour  as  quickly  as  possible  to  meet  him  and 
the  difficulty  that  was  to  be  encountered  j  but  before 
she  was  in  a  condition  to  be  seen,  she  heard  a  man's 
voice  on  the  stairs,  saying — 

"  Walk  up,  my  dear.  The  rooms  on  the  second 
floor  are  ours." 

Then  came  the  noise  of  many  feet  in  the  passage, 
and  the  din  of  children's  voices.  Mr.  Scragg  and 
his  family  had  arrived. 

Mrs.  Ring  was  sitting  with  the  morning  paper  in 
her  hand,  when  her  door  was  flung  widely  open, 
and  a  strange  man  stepped  boldly  in,  saying,  as  he 
did  so,  to  the  lady  who  followed  him — 
"  This  is  one  of  the  chambers." 
Mrs.  Ring  arose,  bowed,  and  looked  at  the  in 
truders   with   surprise    and   embarrassment.     Just 
then,  four  rude  children  bounded  into  the  room, 
spreading  themselves  around  it,  and  making  them 
selves  perfectly  at  home. 

"  There  is  some  mistake,  I  presume,"  said  Mrs. 
Scragg,  on  perceiving  a  lady  in  the  room,  whose 
manner  said  plainly  enough  that  they  were  out  of 
their  place. 

"  Oh  no  !    no  mistake  at  all,"  replied  Scragg 
"  These  are  the  two  rooms  I  engaged." 


58  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Darlington  entered,  in  manifest 
excitement. 

11  Walk  down  into  the  parlour,  if  you  please/ 
said  she. 

"  These  are  our  rooms,"  said  Scragg,  showing 
no  inclination  to  vacate  the  premises. 

"  Be  kind  enough  to  walk  down  into  the  parlour/' 
repeated  Mrs.  Darlington,  whose  sense  of  propriety 
was  outraged  by  the  man's  conduct,  and  who  felt  a 
corresponding  degree  of  indignation. 

With  some  show  of  reluctance,  this  invitation 
was  acceded  to,  and  Mr.  Scragg  went  muttering 
down  stairs,  followed  by  his  brood.  The  moment 
he  left  the  chamber,  the  door  was  shut  and  locked 
by  Mrs.  Ring,  who  was  a  good  deal  frightened  bj7  so 
unexpected  an  intrusion. 

"  What  am  I  to  understand  by  this,  madam  ?" 
said  Mr.  Scragg,  fiercely,  as  soon  as  they  had  all 
reached  the  parlour,  planting  his  hands  upon  his  hips 
as  he  spoke,  drawing  himself  up,  and  looking  at 
Mrs.  Darlington  with  a  lowering  countenance. 

"Take  a  seat,  madam,"  said  Mrs.  Darlington, 
addressing  the  man's  wife  in  a  tone  of  forced  com 
posure.  She  was  struggling  for  self-possession.. 

The  lady  sat  down. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  explain  the  mean 
ing  of  all  this,  madam  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Scragg. 

"  The  meaning  is  simply/'  replied  Mrs.  Darling 
ton,  "  that  I  have  let  the  front  room  in  the  second 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  59 


story  to  a  gentleman  and  his  wife  for  twelve  dollars 
a  week." 

"  The  dense  you  have  I"  said  Mr.  Scragg,  with  a 
particular  exhibition  of  gentlemanly  indignation. 
a  And  pray,  madam;  didn't  you  let  both  the  rooms 
in  the  second  story  to  me  for  sixteen  dollars  V 

"I  did;  but"— 

"Oh,  very  well.  That's  all  I  wish  to  know 
about  it.  The  rooms  were  rented  to  me,  and  from 
that  day  became  mine.  Please  to  inform  the  lady 
and  her  husband  that  I  am  here  with  my  family, 
and  desire  them  to  vacate  the  chambers  as  quickly 
as  possible.  I'm  a  man  that  knows  his  rights,  and, 
knowing,  always  maintains  them." 

"  You  cannot  have  the  rooms,  sir.  That  is  out 
of  the  question,"  said  Mrs.  Darlington,  looking  both 
distressed  and  indignant. 

"  And  I  tell  you  that  I  will  have  them  !"  replied 
Scragg,  angrily. 

"  Peter!  Peter!  Don't  act  so,"  now  interposed 
Mrs.  Scragg.  "  There's  no  use  in  it." 

"  Ain't  there,  indeed  ?  We'll  see.  Madam"— 
he  addressed  Mrs.  Darlington — "  will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  inform  the  lady  and  gentleman  who  now 
occupy  one  of  our  rooms" — 

"  Mr.  Scragg  !"  said  Mrs.  Darlington,  in  whose 
fainting  heart  his  outrageous  conduct  had  awakened 
something  of  the  right  spirit — "  Mr.  Scragg,  I  wish 
you  to  understand,  once  for  all,  that  the  front  room 


60  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

is  taken  and  now  occupied,  and  that  you  cannot 
have  it." 

"Madam!" 

"  It's  no  use  for  you  to  waste  words,  sir  !  What 
I  say  I  mean.  I  have  other  rooms  in  the  house 
very  nearly  as  good,  and  am  willing  to  take  you  for 
something  less  in  consideration  of  this  disappoint 
ment.  If  that  will  meet  your  views,  well ;  if  not, 
let  us  have  no  more  words  on  the  subject." 

There  was  a  certain  something  in  Mrs.  Darling 
ton's  tone  of  voice  that  Scragg  understood  to  mean 
a  fixed  purpose.  Moreover,  his  mind  caught  at  the 
idea  of  getting  boarded  for  something  less  than  six 
teen  dollars  a  week. 

"  Where  are  the  rooms  ?"  he  asked  gruffly, 

"  The  third  story  chambers." 

"  Front  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  third  story." 

"  Very  well.  Then  you  can  have  the  back 
onamber  down  stairs,  and  the  front  chamber 
above." 

"  What  will  be  your  charge  ?" 

"  Fourteen  dollars." 

"  That  will  do,  Peter,"  said  Mrs.  Scragg.  "  Two 
dollars  a  week  is  considerable  abatement." 

"  It's  something,  of  course.  But  I  don't  like 
this  off  and  on  kind  of  business.  When  I  make  an 
agreement,  I'm  up  to  the  mark,  and  expect  the  sam<j 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  61 


from  everybody  else.  Will  you  let  my  wife  see  the 
rooms,  madam?" 

"  Certainly/'  replied  Mrs.  Darlington,  and  moved 
towards  the  door.  Mrs.  Scragg  followed,  and  so 
did  all  the  juvenile  Scraggs — the  latter  springing 
up  the  stairs  with  the  agility  of  apes  and  the  noise 
of  a  dozen  rude  schoolboys  just  freed  from  the  terror 
of  rod  and  ferule. 

The  rooms  suited  Mrs.  Scragg  very  well — at  least 
such  was  her  report  to  her  husband — and,  after  some 
further  rudeness  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Scragg,  and  an 
effort  to  beat  Mrs.  Darlington  down  to  twelve  dol 
lars  a  week,  were  taken,  and  forthwith  occupied. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.  DARLINGTON  was  a  woman  of  refinement 
herself,  and  had  been  used  to  the  society  of  refined 
persons.  She  was,  naturally  enough,  shocked  at  the 
coarseness  and  brutality  of  Mr.  Scragg,  and,  ere  an 
hour  went  by,  in  despair  at  the  unmannerly  rude 
ness  of  the  children,  the  oldest  a  stout,  vulgar- 
looking  boy,  who  went  racing  and  rummaging  about 
the  house  from  the  garret  to  the  cellar.  I 'or  a  long 
time  after  her  exciting  interview  with  Mr.  Scragg, 
she  sat  weeping  and  trembling  in  her  own  room, 
with  Edith  by  her  side,  who  sought  earnestly  to 
comfort  and  encourage  her. 
6 


62  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

"  Oh,  Edith  !"  she  sobbed,  "  to  think  that  we 
Bhould  be  humbled  to  this  I" 

"  Necessity  has  forced  us  into  our  present  unhap 
py  position,  mother,"  replied  Edith.  "  Let  us  meet 
its  difficulties  with  as  brave  hearts  as  possible." 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  treat  that  dreadful  man 
with  even  common  civility,"  said  Mrs  Darlington. 

"  We  have  accepted  him  as  our  gaest,  mother, 
and  it  will  be  our  duty  to  make  all  as  pleasant  and 
comfortable  as  possible.  We  will  have  to  bear 
much,  I  see — much  beyond  what  I  had  anticipated." 

Mrs.  Darlington  sighed  deeply  as  she  replied — 

"Yes,  yes,  Edith.  Ah,  the  thought  makes  me 
miserable  !" 

"  No  more  of  that  sweet  drawing  together  in  our 
own  dear  home  circle,"  remarked  Edith,  sadly. 
"  Henceforth  we  are  to  bear  the  constant  presence 
and  intrusion  of  strangers,  with  whom  we  have  few 
or  no  sentiments  in  common.  We  open  our  house 
and  take  in  the  ignorant,  the  selfish,  the  vulgar,  and 
feed  them  for  a  certain  price  !  Does  not  the  thought 
bring  a  feeling  of  painful  humiliation  ?  What  can 
pay  for  all  this  ?  Ah  me  !  The  anticipation  had  in 
it  not  a  glimpse  of  what  we  have  found  in  our  brief 
experience.  Except  Mr.  and  Mrs.  King,  there  isn't 
a  lady  nor  gentleman  in  the  house.  That  Mason  is 
so  rudely  familiar  that  I  cannot  bear  to  come  near 
him.  He's  making  himself  quite  intimate  with 
Henry  already,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  it." 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  63 

"  Nor  do  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Darlington.  "  Henry's 
been  out  with  him  twice  to  the  theatre  already/' 

"  I'm  afraid  of  his  influence  over  Henry.  He's 
not  the  kind  of  a  companion  he  ought  to  choose/' 
said  Edith.  «  And  then  Mr.  Barling  is  with  Miriam 
in  the  parlour  almost  every  evening.  He  asks  her  to 
sing,  and  she  says  she  doesn't  like  to  refuse." 

The  mother  sighed  deeply.  While  they  were 
conversing,  a  servant  came  to  their  room  to  say  that 
Mr.  Ring  was  in  the  parlour,  and  wished  to  speak 
with  Mrs.  Darlington.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon 
of  the  day  on  which  the  Scraggs  had  made  their 
appearance. 

With  a  presentiment  of  trouble,  Mrs.  Darlington 
went  dowfc  to  the  parlour. 

"  Madam/'  said  Mr.  Ring,  as  soon  as  she  entered, 
speaking  in  a  firm  voice,  "  I  find  that  my  wife  has 
been  grossly  insulted  by  a  fellow  whose  family  you 
have  taken  into  your  house.  Now  they  must  leave 
here,  or  we  will,  and  that  forthwith." 

"I  regret  extremely,"  replied  Mrs.  Darlington, 
"the  unpleasant  occurrence  to  which  you  allude; 
but  I  do  not  see  how  it  is  possible  for  me  to  turn 
these  people  out  of  the  house." 

"  Very  well,  ma'am.  Suit  yourself  about  that. 
You  can  choose  between  us.  Both  can't  remain." 

"  If  I  were  to  tell  this  Mr.  Scragg  to  seek  anothei 
boarding-house,  he  would  insult  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Darlington. 


64  TAKING  BOARDERS. 

"  Strange  that  you  would  take  such  a  fellow  into 
your  house !" 

"My  rooms  were  vacant,  and  I  had  to  fill 
them." 

"  Better  to  have  let  them  remain  vacant.  But 
this  is  neither  here  nor  there.  If  this  fellow  re 
mains,  we  go." 

And  go  they  did  on  the  next  day.  Mrs.  Darling 
ton  was  afraid  to  approach  Mr.  Scragg  on  the  subject. 
Had  she  done  so,  she  would  have  received  nothing 
but  abuse. 

Two  weeks  afterward,  the  room  vacated  by  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  King  was  taken  by  a  tall,  fine-looking 
man,  who  wore  a  pair  of  handsome  whiskers  and 
dressed  elegantly.  He  gave  his  name  as  Burton, 
and  agreed  to  pay  eight  dollars.  Mrs.  Darlington 
liked  him  very  much.  There  was  a  certain  style 
about  him  that  evidenced  good  breeding  and  a 
knowledge  of  the  world.  What  his  business  was 
he  did  not  say.  He  was  usually  in  the  house  as 
late  as  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  rarely  came 
in  before  twelve  at  night. 

Soon  after  Mr.  Burton  became  a  member  of  Mrs. 
Darlington's  household,  he  began  to  show  particular 
attentions  to  Miriam,  who  was  in  her  nineteenth 
year,  and  was,  as  we  have  said,  a  gentle,  timid, 
shrinking  girl.  Though  she  did  not  encourage,  she 
would  not  reject  the  attentions  of  the  polite  and 
elegant  stranger,  who  had  so  much  that  was  agree- 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  65 


able  to  say  that  she  insensibly  acquired  a  kind  of 
prepossession  in  his  favour. 

As  now  constituted,  the  family  of  Mrs.  Darlington 
was  not  so  pleasant  and  harmonious  as  could  have 
b^en  desired.  Mr.  Scragg  had  already  succeeded 
in  making  himself  so  disagreeable  to  the  other 
boarders,  that  they  were  scarcely  civil  to  him ;  and 
Mrs.  Grimes,  who  was  quite  gracious  with  Mrs. 
Scragg  at  first,  no  longer  spoke  to  her.  They  had 
fallen  out  about  some  trifle,  quarrelled,  and  then  cut 
each  other's  acquaintance.  When  the  breakfast, 
dinner,  or  tea  bell  rang,  and  the  boarders  assembled 
at  the  table,  there  was  generally,  at  first,  an  embar 
rassing  silence.  Scragg  looked  like  a  bull-dog  wait 
ing  for  an  occasion  to  bark ;  Mrs.  Scragg  sat  with 
her  lips  closely  compressed  and  her  head  partly 
turned  away,  so  as  to  keep  her  eyes  out  of  the  line 
of  vision  with  Mrs.  Grimes' s  face ;  while  Mrs.  Grimes 
gave  an  occasional  glance  of  contempt  towards  the 
lady  with  whom  she  had  had  a  "  tiff."  Barling  and 
Mason,  observing  all  this,  and  enjoying  it,  were 
generally  the  first  to  break  the  reigning  silence; 
and  this  was  usually  done  by  addressing  some  re 
mark  to  Scragg,  for  no  other  reason,  it  seemed,  than 
to  hear  his  growling  reply.  Usually,  they  succeeded 
in  drawing  him  into  an  argument,  when  they  would 
goad  him  until  he  became  angry ;  a  species  of  irrita 
tion  in  which  they  never'suffered  themselves  to  in 
dulge.  As  for  Mr.  Grimes,  he  was  a  man  of  few 

«* 


66  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

words.  When  spoken  to,  he  would  reply ;  but  he 
never  made  conversation.  The  only  man  who  really 
behaved  like  a  gentleman  was  Mr.  Burton  j  and  the 
contrast  seen  in  him  naturally  prepossessed  the 
family  in  his  favour. 

The  first  three  months'  experience  in  taking  board 
ers  was  enough  to  make  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Darling 
ton  sick.  All  domestic  comfort  was  gone.  From 
early  morning  until  late  at  night,  she  toiled  harder 
than  any  servant  in  the  house;  and;  with  all,  had  a 
mind  pressed  down  with  care  and  anxiety.  Three 
times  during  this  period  she  had  been  obliged  to 
change  her  cook,  yet,  for  all,  scarcely  a  day  passed 
that  she  did  not  set  badly  cooked  food  before  her 
guests.  Sometimes  certain  of  the  boarders  com 
plained,  and  it  generally  happened  that  rudeness 
accompanied  the  complaint.  The  sense  of  pain  that 
attended  this  was  always  most  acute,  for  it  was  ac 
companied  by  deep  humiliation  and  a  feeling  of 
helplessness.  Moreover,  during  these  first  three 
months,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grimes  had  left  the  house 
without  paying  their  board  for  five  weeks,  thus  throw 
ing  her  into  a  loss  of  forty  dollars. 

At  the  beginning  of  this  experiment,  after  com 
pleting  the  furniture  of  her  house,  Mrs.  Darlington 
had  about  three  hundred  dollars.  When  the  quar 
ter's  bill  for  rent  was  paid,  she  had  only  a  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  left.  Thus,  instead  of  making  any 
thing  by  boarders,  so  far,  she  had  sunk  a  hundred 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  67 

and  fifty  dollars.  This  fact  disheartened  her  dread 
fully.  Then,  the  effect  upon  almost  every  member 
of  her  family  had  been  bad.  Harry  was  no  longer 
the  thoughtful,  affectionate,  innocent-minded  young 
man  of  former  days.  Mason  and  Barling  had  intro 
duced  him  into  gay  company,  and,  fascinated  with 
a  new  and  more  exciting  kind  of  life,  he  was  fast 
forming  associations  and  acquiring  habits  of  a  dan 
gerous  character.  It  was  rare  that  he  spent  an  even 
ing  at  home;  and,  instead  of  being  of  any  assistance 
to  his  mother,  was  constantly  making  demands  on 
her  for  money.  The  pain  all  this  occasioned  Mrs. 
Darlington  was  of  the  most  distressing  character. 
Since  the  children  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scragg  came  into 
the  house,  Edward  and  Ellen,  who  had  heretofore 
been  under  the  constant  care  and  instruction  of  their 
mother,  left  almost  entirely  to  themselves,  associated 
constantly  with  these  children,  and  learned  from 
them  to  be  rude,  vulgar,  and,  in  some  things,  even 
vicious.  And  Miriam  had  become  apparently  so 
much  interested  in  Mr.  Burton,  who  was  constantly 
attentive  to  her,  that  both  Mrs.  Darlington  and 
Edith  became  anxious  on  her  account.  Burton  was 
an  entire  stranger  to  them  all,  and  there  were  many 
things  about  him  that  appeared  strange,  if  not 
wrong. 

So  much  for  the  experiment  of  taking  boarders, 
after  the  lapse  of  a  single  quarter  of  a  year. 


68  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ABOUT  this  time  a  lady  and  gentleman,  named 
Marion,  called  and  engaged  boarding  for  themselves 
and  three  children.  In  Mrs.  Marion  there  was 
something  that  won  the  heart  at  first  sight,  and  her 
children  were  as  lovely  and  attractive  as  herself; 
but  towards  her  husband  there  was  a  feeling  of  in 
stant  repulsion.  Not  that  he  was  coarse  or  rude  in 
his  exterior — that  was  polished ;  but  there  were  a 
sensualism  and  want  of  principle  about  him  that 
could  be  felt. 

They  had  been  in  the  house  only  a  week  or  two, 
when  their  oldest  child,  a  beautiful  boy,  was  taken 
ill.  He  had  fever,  and  complained  of  distress  in  his 
back  and  pain  in  his  head.  The  mother  appeared 
anxious,  but  the  father  treated  the  matter  lightly, 
and  said  he  would  be  well  again  in  a  few  hours. 

"  I  think  you'd  better  call  in  a  doctor,"  Mrs. 
Darlington  heard  the  mother  say,  as  her  husband 
stood  at  the  chamber  door  ready  to  go  away. 

"  Nonsense,  Jane/'  he  replied.  "  You  are  easily 
frightened.  There's  nothing  serious  the  matter." 

"I'm  afraid  of  scarlet  fever,  Henry,"  was  an 
swered  to  this 

"Fiddlesticks!  You're  always  afraid  of  some 
thing,"  was  lightly  and  unkindly  returned. 


TAKING   BOARDERS. 


Mrs.  Marion  said  no  more,  and  her  husband  went 
away.  About  half  an  hour  afterwards,  as  Mrs. 
Darlington  sat  in  her  room,  there  was  a  light  tap  at 
her  door,  which  was  immediately  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Marion  stepped  in.  Her  face  was  pale,  and  it  was 
some  moments  before  her  quivering  lips  could  arti 
culate. 

"Won't  you  come  up  and  look  at  my  Willy?" 
she  at  length  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"  Certainly,  ma'am,"  replied  Mrs.  Darlington, 
rising  immediately.  "  What  do  you  think  ails  your 
little,  boy?" 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am;  but  I'm  afraid  of  scarlet 
fever — that  dreadful  disease." 

Mrs.  Darlington  went  up  to  the  chamber  of  Mrs. 
Marion.  On  the  bed  lay  Willy,  his  face  flushed 
with  fever,  and  his  eyes  wearing  a  glassy  lustre. 

"Do  you  feel  sick,  my  dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Dar 
lington,  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  burning  fore 
head. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  the  child. 

"  Where  are  you  sick  ?" 

"  My  head  aches." 

"  Is  your  throat  sore  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Very  sore  ?" 

"  It  hurts  me  so  that  I  can  hardly  swallow." 

"  What  do  you  think  ails  him  ?"  asked  the  mo 
ther,  in  anxious  tones. 


70  TAKING  BOARDERS. 


"  It's  hard  to  say,  Mrs.  Marion ;  but,  if  it  wero 
niy  case,  I  would  send  for  a  doctor.  Who  is  your 
physician?" 

"  Dr.  M ." 

"  If  you  would  like  to  have  him  called  in,  I  will 
send  the  waiter  to  his  office." 

Mrs.  Marion  looked  troubled  and  alarmed. 

"  My  husband  doesn't  think  it  any  thing 
serious,"  said  she.  "  I  wanted  him  to  go  for  the 
doctor." 

"  Take  my  advice,  and  send  for  a  physician,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Darlington. 

"If  you  will  send  for  Dr.  M ,  I  will  feel 

greatly  obliged,"  said  Mrs.  Marion. 

The  doctor  was  sent  for  immediately.  He  did 
not  come  for  two  hours,  in  which  time  Willy  had 
grown  much  worse.  He  looked  serious,  and  an 
swered  all  questions  evasively.  After  writing  a 
prescription,  he  gave  a  few  directions,  and  said  he 
would  call  again  in  the  evening.  At  his  second 
visit,  he  found  his  patient  much  worse;  and,  on  the 
following  morning,  pronounced  it  a  case  of  scarla 
tina. 

Already,  Willy  had  made  a  friend  in  every  mem 
ber  of  Mrs.  Darlington's  family,  and  the  announce 
ment  of  his  dangerous  illness  was  received  with 
acute  pain.  Miriam  took  her  place  beside  Mrs. 
Marion  in  the  sick  chamber,  all  her  sympathies 
alive,  and  all  her  fears  awakened;  and  Edith  and 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  71 

her  mother  gave  every  attention  that  their  other- 
duties  in  the  household  would  permit. 

Rapidly  did  the  disease,  which  had  fixed  itself 
upon  the  delicate  frame  of  the  child,  run  its  fatal 
course.  On  the  fourth  day  he  died  in  the  arms  of 
his  almost  frantic  mother. 

Though  Mrs.  Marion  had  been  only  a  short  time 
in  the  house,  yet  she  had  already  deeply  interested 
the  feelings  of  Mrs.  Darlington  and  her  two  eldest 
daughters,  who  suffered  with  her  in  the  affliction 
almost  as  severely  as  if  they  had  themselves  expe 
rienced  a  bereavement;  and  this  added  to  the  weight, 
already  painfully  oppressive,  that  rested  upon  them. 

The  nearer  contact  into  which  the  family  of  Mrs. 
Darlington  and  the  bereaved  mother  were  brought 
by  this  affliction,  discovered  to  the  former  many 
things  that  strengthened  the  repugnance  first  felt 
towards  Mr.  Marion,  and  awakened  still  livelier 
sympathies  for  his  suffering  wife. 

One  evening,  a  week  after  the  body  of  the  child 
was  borne  out  by  the  mourners  and  laid  to  moulder 
in  its  kindred  dust,  the  voice  of  Mr.  Marion  was 
heard  in  loud,  angry  tones.  He  was  alone  with  his 
wife  in  their  chamber.  This  chamber  was  next  to 
that  of  Edith  and  Miriam,  where  they,  at  the  time, 
happened  to  be.  "What  he  said  they  could  not  make 
out;  but  they  distinctly  heard  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Marion,  and  the  words — 

"  Oh;  Henry !  don't !  don't !"  uttered  in  tones  the 


72  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

most  agonizing.  They  also  heard  the  words,  "  For 
the  sake  of  our  dear,  dear  Willy !"  used  in  some 
appeal. 

Both  Edith  and  Miriam  were  terribly  frightened, 
and  sat  panting  and  looking  at  each  other  with  pale 
faces. 

All  now  became  silent.  Not  a  sound  could  be 
heard  in  the  chamber  save  an  occasional  low  sob. 
For  half  an  hour  this  silence  continued.  Then  the 
door  of  the  chamber  was  opened,  and  Marion  went 
down  stairs.  The  closing  of  the  front  door  an 
nounced  his  departure  from  the  house.  Edith  and 
her  sister  sat  listening  for  some  minutes  after  Marion 
had  left,  but  not  a  movement  could  they  perceive 
in  the  adjoining  chamber. 

"  Strange  !  What  can  it  mean  ?"  at  length  said 
Miriam,  in  a  husky  whisper.  Edith  breathed  hea 
vily  to  relieve  the  pressure  on  her  bosom,  but  made 
no  answer. 

"He  didn't  strike  her?'7  said  Miriam,  her  face 
growing  paler  as  she  made  this  suggestion. 

The  moment  this  was  uttered,  Edith  arose  quickly 
and  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  her  sister. 

"  Into  Mrs.  Marion's  room/' 

"  Oh  no,  don't !"  returned  Miriam,  speaking  from 
some  vague  fear  that  made  her  heart  shrink. 

But  Edith  did  not  heed  the  words.  Her  light  tap 
at  Mrs.  Marion's  door  was  not  answered.  Opening 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  73 

it  softly,  she  stepped  within  the  chamber.  On  the 
bed,  where  she  had  evidently  thrown  herself,  lay 
Mrs.  Marion;  and,  on  approaching  and  bending  over 
her,  Edith  discovered  that  she  was  sleeping.  On 
perceiving  this,  she  retired  as  noiselessly  as  she  had 
entered. 

Ten,  eleven,  twelve  o'clock  came,  and  yet  Mr 
Marion  had  not  returned.  An  hour  later  than  this, 
Edith  and  her  sister  lay  awake,  but  up  to  that  time 
he  was  still  away.  On  the  next  morning,  when  the 
bell  rang  for  breakfast,  and  the  family  assembled  at 
the  table,  the  places  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marion  were 
vacant.  From  their  nurse  it  was  ascertained  that 
Mr.  Marion  had  not  corne  home  since  he  went  out 
on  the  evening  before,  and  that  his  wife  had  not  yet 
arisen.  Between  nine  and  ten  o'clock,  Mrs.  Dar 
lington  sent  up  to  know  if  Mrs.  Marion  wished  any 
thing,  but  was  answered  in  the  negative.  At  dinner 
time  Mr.  Marion  did  not  make  his  appearance,  and 
his  wife  remained  in  her  chamber.  Food  was  sent 
to  her,  but  it  was  returned  untasted. 

During  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Darlington  knocked  at 
her  door,  but  the  nurse  said  that  Mrs.  Marion  asked 
to  be  excused  from  seeing  her.  At  supper  time  food 
was  sent  again  to  her  room;  but,  save  part  of  a  cup 
of  tea,  nothing  was  tasted.  After  tea,  Mrs.  Dar 
lington  called  again  at  her  room,  but  the  desire  to 
be  excused  from  seeing  her  was  repeated.  Marion 
did  not  return  that  night. 
7 


74  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

Nearly  a  week  passed,  the  husband  still  remain 
ing  away,  and  not  once  during  that  time  had  Mrs. 
Marion  been  seen  by  any  member  of  the  family. 
At  the  end  of  this  period,  she  sent  word  to  Mrs. 
Darlington  that  she  would  be  glad  to  see  her. 

When  the  latter  entered  her  room,  she  found  her 
lying  upon  the  bed,  with  a  face  so  pale  and  grief- 
stricken,  that  she  could  not  help  an  exclamation  of 
painful  surprise. 

"  My  dear  madam,  what  has  happened?"  said  she, 
as  she  took  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Marion  was  too  much  overcome  by  emotion 
to  be  able  to  speak  for  some  moments.  Acquiring 
self-possession  at  length,  she  said,  in  a  low,  sad 
voice — 

"  My  heart  is  almost  broken,  Mrs.  Darlington.  I 
feel  crushed  to  the  very  ground.  How  shall  I  speak 
of  what  I  am  suffering?" 

Her  voice  quivered  and  failed.  But  in  a  few 
moments  she  recovered  herself  again,  and  said,  more 
calmly — 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  that  my  husband  has  been 
absent  for  a  week ;  he  went  away  in  a  moment  of 
anger,  vowing  that  he  would  never  return.  Hourly 
have  I  waited  since,  in  the  hope  that  he  would  come 
back;  but,  alas  !  I  have  thus  far  received  from  him 
neither  word  nor  sign." 

Mrs.  Marion  here  gave  way  to  her  feelings,  and 
wept  bitterly. 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  75 

"Pid  he  ever  leave  you  before?"  asked   Mrs. 
Darlington,  as  soon  as  she  had  grown  calm. 

"Once." 

"  How  long  did  he  remain  away  ?" 

"  More  than  a  year." 

"  Have  you  friends  ?" 

"I  have  no  relative  but  an  aunt,  who  is  very 
poor." 

Mrs.  Darlington  sighed  involuntarily.  On  that 
very  day  she  had  been  seriously  examining  into  her 
affairs,  and  the  result  was  a  conviction  that,  under 
her  present  range  of  expenses,  she  must  go  behind 
hand  with  great  rapidity.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marion 
were  to  pay  fourteen  dollars  a  week.  Thus  far, 
nothing  had  been  received  from  them;  and  now  the 
husband  had  gone  off  and  left  his  family  on  her 
hands.  She  could  not  turn  them  off,  yet  how  could 
she  bear  up  under  this  additional  burden  ! 

All  this  passed  through  her  mind  in  a  moment, 
and  produced  the  sigh  which  distracted  her  bosom. 
"Do  you  not  know  where  he  has  gone?"  she 
asked,  seeking  to  throw  as  much  sympathy  and  in 
terest  in  her  voice  as  possible,  and  thus  to  conceal 
the  pressure  upon  her  own  feelings  which  the  intel 
ligence  had  occasioned. 

Mrs.  Marion  shook  her  head.     She  knew  that,  in 
the  effort  to  speak,  her  voice  would  fail  her. 

For  nearly  the  space  of  a  minute  there  was  silence. 
This  was  broken,  at  length,  by  Mrs.  Marion,  who 


76  TAKING   BOAHDERS. 

again  wept  violently.     As  soon  as  the  passionate 
burst  of  feeling  was  over,  Mrs.  Darlington  said  to  * 
her  in  a  kind  and  sympathizing  voice — 

"  Do  not  grieve  so  deeply.  You  are  not  friend 
less  altogether.  Though  you  have  been  with  us 
only  a  short  time,  we  feel  an  interest  in  you,  and 
will  not" — 

The  sentence  remained  unfinished.  There  was 
an  impulse  in  Mrs.  Darlington's  mind  to  proffer  the 
unhappy  woman  a  home  for  herself  and  children ; 
but  a  sudden  recollection  of  the  embarrassing  nature 
of  her  own  circumstances  checked  the  words  on  her 
tongue. 

"  I  cannot  remain  a  burden  upon  you/'  quickly 
answered  Mrs.  Marion.  "But  where  can  I  go? 
What  shall  I  do  ?" 

The  last  few  words  were  spoken  half  to  herself,  in 
a  low  tone  of  distressing  despondency. 

"  For  the  present,"  said  Mrs.  Darlington,  anxious 
to  mitigate,  even  in  a  small  degree,  the  anguish  of 
the  unhappy  woman's  mind,  "  let  this  give  you  no 
trouble.  Doubtless  the  way  will  open  before  you. 
After  the  darkest  hour  the  morning  breaks/' 

Yet,  even  while  Mrs.  Darlington  sought  thus  to 
give  comfort,  her  own  heart  felt  the  weight  upon  it 
growing  heavier.  Scarcely  able  to  stand  up  in  her 
difficulties  alone,  here  was  a  new  burden  laid  upon 
her. 

None  could  have  sympathized  more  deeply  with 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  77 

the  afflicted  mother  and  deserted  wife  than  did  Mrs. 
Darlington  and  her  family;  and  none  could  have 
extended  more  willingly  a  helping  hand  in  time  of 
need.  But,  in  sustaining  the  burden  of  her  support, 
they  felt  that  the  additional  weight  was  bearing 
them  under. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THREE  months  more  elapsed.  Mrs.  Marion  was 
still  an  inmate  of  the  family.  Up  to  this  time,  not 
a  word  had  come  from  her  husband,  and  she  had  not 
been  able  to  pay  Mrs.  Darlington  a  single  dollar. 
Painfully  did  she  feel  her  dependent  situation,  al 
though  she  was  treated  with  the  utmost  delicacy  and 
consideration.  But  all  the  widow's  means  were  now 
exhausted  in  the  payment  of  the  second  quarter's 
rent,  and  she  found  her  weekly  income  reduced  to 
thirty-five  dollars,  scarcely  sufficient  to  meet  the 
weekly  expense  for  supplying  the  table,  paying  the 
servants,  etc.,  leaving  nothing  for  future  rent  bills, 
the  cost  of  clothing,  and  education  for  the  younger 
children.  With  all  this,  Mrs.  Darlington's  duties 
had  been  growing  daily  more  and  more  severe. 
Nothing  could  be  trusted  to  servants  that  was  not, 
in  some  way,  defectively  done,  causing  repeated 
complaints  from  the  boarders.  What  proved  most 
annoying  was  the  bad  cooking,  to  remedy  which 


78  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


Mrs.  Darlington  strove  in  vain.  One  day  the  coffee 
was  not  fit  to  drink,  and  on  the  next  day  the  steak 
would  be  burnt  or  broiled  as  dry  as  a  chip,  or  the 
sirloin  roasted  until  every  particle  of  juice  had 
evaporated.  If  hot  cakes  were  ordered  for  break 
fast,  ten  chances  to  one  that  they  were  not  sour ;  or, 
if  rolls  were  baked,  they  would,  most  likely,  be  as 
heavy  as  lead. 

Such  mishaps  were  so  frequent,  that  the  guests  of 
Mrs.  Darlington  became  impatient,  and  Mr.  Scragg, 
in  particular,  never  let  an  occasion  for  grumbling  or 
insolence  pass  without  fully  improving  it. 

"Is  your  coal  out?"  said  he,  one  morning,  about 
this  time,  as  he  sat  at  the  breakfast  table. 

Mrs.  Darlington  understood,  by  the  man's  tone 
and  manner,  that  he  meant  to  be  rude,  though  she 
did  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of  the  question. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  replied,  with  some  dignity  of  man 
ner.  "  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  It  struck  me,"  he  answered,  "  that  such  might 
be  the  case.  But,  perhaps,  cook  is  too  lazy  to  bring 
it  out  of  the  cellar.  If  she'll  send  for  me  to-morrow 
morning,  I'll  bring  her  up  an  extra  scuttleful,  as  I 
particularly  like  a  good  cup  of  hot  coffee." 

His  meaning  was  now  plain.  Quick  as  thought, 
the  blood  rushed  to  the  face  of  Mrs.  Darlington. 
She  had  borne  so  much  from  this  man,  and  felt 
towards  him  such  utter  disgust,  that  she  could  for 
bear  no  longer 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  79 


"Mr.  Scragg,"  said  she,  with  marked  indigna 
tion,  "  when  a  gentleman  has  any  complaint  to  make, 
he  does  it  as  a  gentleman." 

"  Madam  I"  exclaimed  Scragg,  with  a  threat  in 
his  voice,  while  his  coarse  face  became  red  with 
anger. 

"When  a,  gentleman  has  any  complaint  to  make, 
he  does  it  as  a  gentleman,"  repeated  Mrs.  Darling 
ton,  with  a  more  particular  emphasis  than  at  first. 

"I'd  thank  you  to  explain  yourself,"  said  Scragg, 
dropping  his  hands  from  the  table,  and  elevating  his 
person. 

"  My  words  convey  my  meaning  plainly  enough. 
But,  if  you  cannot  understand,  I  will  try  to  make 
them  clearer.  Your  conduct  is  not  that  of  a  gen 
tleman." 

Of  course,  Mr.  Scragg  asked  for  no  further  ex 
planation.  Starting  from  the  table,  he  said,  looking 
at  Mrs.  Scragg — 

"  Come !" 

And  Mrs.  Scragg  arose  and  followed  her  indig 
nant  spouse. 

"  Served  him  right,"  remarked  Burton,  in  a  low 
voice,  bending  a  little  towards  Miriam,  who  sat  near 
him.  "I  hope  we  shall  now  be  rid  of  the  low-bred 
fellow." 

Miriam  was  too  much  disturbed  to  make  a  reply. 
All  at  the  table  felt  more  or  less  uncomfortable,  and 
soon  retired.  Ere  dinner  time,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scragg, 


80  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


with  their  whole  brood,  had  left  the  house,  thus 
reducing  the  income  of  Mrs.  Darlington  from  thirty- 
five  to  twenty-three  dollars  a  week. 

At  dinner  time,  Mrs.  Darlington  was  in  bed.  The 
reaction  which  followed  the  excitement  of  the  morn 
ing,  accompanied  as  it  was  with  the  conviction  that, 
in  parting  with  the  Scraggs,  insufferable  as  they 
were,  she  had  parted  with  the  very  means  of  sustain 
ing  herself,  completely  prostrated  her.  During  the 
afternoon,  she  was  better,  and  was  able  to  confer 
with  Edith  on  the  desperate  nature  of  their  affairs. 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?"  said  she  to  her  daughter, 
breaking  thus  abruptly  a  silence  which  had  con 
tinued  for  many  minutes.  "  We  have  an  income 
of  only  twenty-three  dollars  a  week,  and  that  will 
scarcely  supply  the  table." 

Edith  sighed,  but  did  not  answer. 

"Twenty-three  dollars  a  week,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Darlington.  "  What  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"  Our  rooms  will  not  remain  vacant  long,  I  hope/7 
said  Edith. 

"  There  is  little  prospect  of  filling  them  that  I  can 
see/7  murmured  Mrs.  Darlington.  "If  all  our 
rooms  were  taken,  we  might  get  along." 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Edith  to  this,  speaking 
thoughtfully.  "  I  sometimes  think  that  our  ex 
penses  are  too  great  for  us  to  make  any  thing,  even 
if  our  rooms  were  filled.  Six  hundred  dollars  is  a 
large  rent  for  us  to  pay." 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  81 

"We've  sunk  three  hundred  dollars  in  six  months. 
That  is  certain/'  said  Mrs.  Darlington. 

"And  our  furniture  has  suffered  to  an  extent 
almost  equivalent/'  added  her  daughter. 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  of  that !  The  thought  makes 
me  sick.  Our  handsome  French  china  dinner  set, 
which  cost  us  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  is  com 
pletely  ruined.  Half  of  the  plates  are  broken,  and 
there  is  scarcely  a  piece  of  it  not  injured  or  defaced. 
My  heart  aches  to  see  the  destruction  going  on 
around  us." 

"I  was  in  Mr.  Scragg's  room  to-day/'  said 
Edith. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?"  asked  her  mother. 

"It  would  make  you  sick  in  earnest  to  look  in 
there.  You  know  the  beautiful  bowl  and  pitcher 
that  were  in  her  chamber  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Both  handle  and  spout  are  off  of  the  pitcher." 

"Edith!" 

"  And  the  bowl  is  cracked  from  the  rim  to  the 
centre.  Then  the  elegant  rosewood  washstand  is 
completely  ruined.  Two  knobs  are  off  of  the  dress 
ing-bureau,  the  veneering  stripped  from  the  edge  of 
one  of  the  drawers,  and  the  whole  surface  marked 
over  in  a  thousand  lines.  It  looks  as  if  the  children 
had  amused  themselves  by  the  hour  in  scratching  it 
with  pins.  Three  chairs  are  broken.  And  the  new 
carpet  we  put  on  the  floor  looks  as  if  it  had  been 


82  TAKING    BOARDERS. 


used  for  ten  years.  Moreover,  every  thing  is  in  a 
most  filthy  condition.  It  is  shocking." 

Mrs.  Darlington  fairly  groaned  at  this  intelligence. 

11  But  where  is  it  all  to  lead,  Edith  ?"  she  asked, 
arousing  herself  from  a  kind  of  stupor  into  which 
her  mind  had  fallen.  "  We  cannot  go  on  as  we  arc 
now  going." 

"We  must  reduce  our  expenses,  if  possible." 

"  But  how  are  we  to  reduce  them  ?  We  cannot 
send  away  the  cook." 

"  No.     Of  course  not. 

"  Nor  our  chambermaid." 

"No.    But  cannot  we  dispense  with  the  waiter?" 

"  Who  will  attend  the  table,  go  to  market,  and 
do  the  dozen  other  things  now  required  of  him  ?" 

"  We  can  get  .our  marketing  sent  home." 

"But  the  waiting  on  the  table.  AVho  will  do 
that  ?" 

"  Half  a  dollar  a  week  extra  to  the  chambermaid 
will  secure  that  service  from  her." 

"  Ifut  she  has  enough  to  do  besides  waiting  on 
the  table,"  objected  Mrs.  Darlington. 

"  Miriam  and  I  will  help  more  through  the  house 
than  we  have  yet  done.  Three  dollars  a  week  and 
the  waiter's  board  will  be  saving  a  good  deal." 

Mrs.  Darlington  sighed  heavily,  and  then  said — 

"  To  think  what  I  have  borne  from  that  Scragg 
and  his  family,  ignorant,  low-bred,  vulgar  people, 
with  whom  we  have  no  social  affinity  whatever,  who 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  83 

occupy  a  level  far  below  us,  and  who  yet  put  on  airs 
and  treat  us  as  if  we  were  only  their  servants !  I 
could  bear  his  insolence  no  longer.  Ah,  to  what 
mortifications  are  we  not  subjected  in  our  present 
position  !  How  little  dreamed  I  of  all  this,  when  I 
decided  to  open  a  boarding-house !  But,  Edith,  to 
come  back  to  what  we  were  conversing  about,  it 
would  be  something  to  save  the  expense  of  our 
waiter ;  but  what  are  three  or  four  dollars  a  week, 
when  we  are  going  behind  hand  at  the  rate  of 
twenty  ?" 

"If  Mrs.  Marion" 

Edith  checked  herself,  and  did  not  say  what  was 
in  her  mind.  Mrs.  Darlington  was  silent,  sighed 
again  heavily,  and  then  said — 

"Yes;  if  it  wasn't  for  the  expense  of  keeping 
Mrs.  Marion.  And  she  has  no  claim  upon  us." 

"  None  but  the  claim  of  humanity,"  said  Edith. 

"If  we  were  able  to  pay  that  claim,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Darlington. 

"  True." 

"  But  we  are  not.  Such  being  the  case,  are  we 
justified  in  any  longer  offering  her  a  home  ?" 

"  Where  will  she  go  ?  What  will  she  do  ?"  said 
Edith. 

"  Where  will  we  go  ?  What  will  we  do;  unless 

there  is  a  change  in  our  favour  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Dar 
lington. 

"  Alas,  I  cannot  tell !  When  we  are  weak,  small 


84  TAKING  BOARDERS. 

things  are  felt  as  a  burden.  The  expense  of  keep 
ing  Mrs.  Marion  and  her  two  children  is  not  very 
great.  Still,  it  is  an  expense  that  we  are  unable  to 
meet.  But  how  can  we  tell  her  to  go  ?" 

"  I  cannot  take  my  children's  bread  and  distribute 
it  to  others/'  replied  Mrs.  Darlington,  with  much 
feeling.  "  My  first  duty  is  to  them." 

"  Poor  woman !  My  heart  aches  for  her,"  said 
Edith.  "  She  looks  so  pale  and  heart-broken,  feels 
so  keenly  her  state  of  dependence,  and  tries  so  in 
every  possible  way  to  make  the  pressure  of  her 
presence  in  our  family  as  light  as  possible,  that  the 
very  thought  of  turning  her  from  our  door  seems  to 
involve  cruelty." 

"  All  that,  Edith,  I  feel  most  sensibly.  Ah  me ! 
into  what  a  strait  are  we  driven  !" 

"How  many  times  have  I  wished  that  we  had 
never  commenced  this  business  !"  said  Edith. 
has  brought  us  nothing  but  trouble  from  the  begin 
ning;   and,  unless  my  fears  are  idle,  some  worse 
troubles  are  yet  before  us." 
'<  Of  what  kind  ?" 

{C  Henry  did  not  come  home  until  after  two  o'clock 
this  morning." 

"  What  V  exclaimed  the  mother  in  painful  sur 
prise. 

"  I  sat  up  for  him.  Knowing  that  he  had  gone 
out  with  Mr.  Barling,  and,  finding  that  he  had  not 
returned  by  eleven  o'clock,  I  could  not  go  to  bed.  I 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  85 

said  nothing  to  Miriam,  but  sat  up  alone.  It  was 
nearly  half  past  two  when  he  came  home  in  compa 
ny  with  Barling.  Both,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  were  so 
much  intoxicated,  that  they  could  scarcely  make  their 
way  up  stairs/' 

"Oh,  Edith!"  exclaimed  the  stricken  mother, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  weeping  aloud. 

Miriam  entered  the  room  at  this  moment,  and, 
seeing  her  mother  in  tears,  and  Edith  looking  the 
very  image  of  distress,  begged  to  know  the  cause  of 
their  trouble.  Little  was  said  to  her  then;  but 
Edith,  when  she  was  alone  with  her  soon  after,  fully 
explained  the  desperate  condition  of  their  affairs. 
Hitherto  they  had,  out  of  regard  for  Miriam,  con 
cealed  from  her  the  nature  of  the  difficulties  that 
were  closing  around  them. 

"  I  dreamed  not  of  this,"  said  Miriam,  in  a  voice 
of  anguish.  "  My  poor  mother  !  What  pain  she 
must  suffer !  No  wonder  that  her  countenance  is  so 
ofteu  sad.  But,  Edith,  cannot  we  do  something  ?" 

Ever  thus,  to  the  mind  of  the  sweet  girl,  when 
the  troubles  of  others  were  mentioned  to  her,  came, 
first,  the  desire  to  afford  relief. 

"We  can  do  nothing,"  replied  Edith,  "at  pre 
sent,  unless  it  be  to  assist  through  the  house,  so  that 
the  chambermaid  can  attend  the  door,  wait  on  the 
table,  and  do  other  things  now  required  of  the 
waiter." 

"And  let  him  go?" 

8 


86  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


"Yes." 

"I  am  willing  to  do  all  in  my  power,  Edith/' 
said  Miriam.  "But,  if  mother  has  lost  so  much 
already,  will  she  not  lose  still  more  if  she  continue 
to  go  on  as  she  is  now  going  ?" 

"  She  hopes  to  fill  all  her  rooms;  then  she  thinks 
that  she  will  he  able  to  make  something." 

"  This  has  been  her  hope  from  the  first,"  replied 
Miriam. 

"Yes;  and  thus  far  it  has  been  a  vain  hope." 

"Three  hundred  dollars  lost  already,"  sighed 
Miriam,  "our  beautiful  furniture  ruined,  and  all  do 
mestic  happiness  destroyed !  Ah  me  !  Where  is 
all  going  to  end  ?  Uncle  Hiram  was  right  when  he 
objected  to  mother's  taking  boarders,  and  said  that 
it  was  the  worst  thing  she  could  attempt  to  do.  I 
wish  we  had  taken  his  advice.  Willingly  would  I 
give  music  lessons  or  work  with  my  hands  for  an 
income,  to  save  mother  from  the  suffering  and  labour 
she  has  now  to  bear." 

"  The  worst  is,"  said  Edith,  following  out  her  own 
thoughts  rather  than  replying  to  her  sister,  "  now 
that  all  our  money  is  gone,  debt  will  follow.  How 
is  the  next  quarter's  rent  to  be  paid  ?" 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  ?" 

"  Yes.     How  can  we  pay  that  ?" 

"  Oh  dear !"  sighed  Miriam.  "  What  are  we  to 
do  ?  How  dark  all  looks  !" 

"  If  there  is  not  some  change,"  said  Edjth;  "  by 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  87 

the  close  of  another  six  months,  every  thing  we  have 

will  be  sold  for  debt." 

"Dreadful!"  ejaculated  Miriam,  "dreadful  I" 
For  a  long  time  the  sisters  conferred  together,  but 

no  gleam  of  light  arose  in  their  minds.     All  the 

future  remained  shrouded  in  darkness. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  man  named  Burton,  to  whom  reference  has 
been  made  as  being  particularly  attentive  to  Miriam, 
was  really  charmed  with  the  beautiful  young  girl. 
But  the  affection  of  a  man  such  as  he  was  comes  to 
its  object  as  a  blight  instead  of  a  blessing.  Miriam, 
while  she  did  not  repel  his  attentions,  for  his  manner 
towards  her  was  ever  polite  and  respectful,  felt, 
nevertheless,  an  instinctive  repugnance  towards  him, 
and  when  she  could  keep  out  of  his  way  without 
seeming  to  avoid  him,  she  generally  did  so. 

A  few  evenings  after  the  conversation  held  with 
Edith,  as  given  in  the  last  chapter,  Burton,  in  pass 
ing  from  the  dining  room,  said  to  Miriam, — 

"Come.  I  want  you  to  play  for  me  some  of 
those  beautiful  airs  in  Don  Giovanni." 

"  Indeed  you  must  excuse  me,  Mr.  Burton,"  re 
plied  Miriam.  "  I  don't  feel  like  playing  to-night." 

"  Can't  excuse  you,  indeed,"  said  Burton,  smiling 
pleasantly,  and,  at  the  same  time,  taking  Miriam's 


TAKING   BOARDERS. 


hand,  which  she  quickly  withdrew  from  his  touch. 
The  contact  sent  an  unpleasant  thrill  along  her 
nerves.  "So  come.  I  must  have  some  music 
to-night." 

Miriam  yielded  to  the  request,  although  she  felt 
in  no  mood  for  touching  the  piano.  After  playing 
several  pieces,  she  lifted  her  hands  from  the  instru 
ment,  and,  turning  away  from  it,  said, — • 

"  There,  Mr.  Burton,  you  must  really  excuse  me. 
I  cannot  play  to-night." 

"  Excuse  you !  Certainly.  And  for  the  pleasure 
you  have  given  me,  accept  my  thanks,"  replied  Mr. 
Burton.  There,  was  a  change  in  his  tone  of  voice 
which  Miriam  did  not  comprehend.  "And  now," 
he  added,  in  a  low  voice,  bending  to  her  ear,  "come 
and  sit  down  with  me  on  the  sofa.  I  have  some 
thing  particular  that  I  wish  to  say." 

Miriam  did  as  she  was  desired,  not  dreaming  of 
what  was  in  the  mind  of  Burton. 

"Miriam,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "do  not  be 
startled  nor  surprised  at  what  I  am  going  to  say." 

But  his  words  and  manner  both  startled  her,  and 
she  was  about  rising,  when  he  took  her  hand  and 
gently  detained  her. 

"  Nay,  Miriam,"  said  he,  "  you  must  hear  what 
I  wish  to  speak.  From  the  day  I  entered  this  house, 
you  have  interested  me  deeply.  Admiration  was 
followed  quickly  by  profound  respect;  and  to  this 
succeeded  a  warmer  sentiment." 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  89 

A  deep  crimson  instantly  mantled  the  face  of 
Miriam,  and  her  eye  fell  to  the  floor. 

"  Can  you,  my  dear  young  lady,"  continued  Mr. 
Burton,  "  reciprocate  the  feeling  I  have  expressed  ?" 

"Oh,  sir!  Excuse  me!"  said  Miriam,  so -soon 
as  she  could  recover  her  disordered  thoughts.  And 
she  made  another  effort  to  rise,  but  was  still  detained 
by  Burton. 

"  Stay !  stay  !"  said  he.  "  Hear  all  that  I  wish  to 
utter.  I  am  rich" — 

But,  ere  he  could  speak  another  word,  Miriam 
sprang  from  the  sofa,  and,  bounding  from  the  room, 
flew  rather  than  walked  up  the  stairs.  The  instant 
she  entered  her  own  room  she  closed  and  locked  the 
door,  and  then,  falling  upon  the  bed,  gave  vent  to  a 
flood  of  tears.  A  long  time  passed  before  her  spirit 
regained  its  former  composure ;  and  then,  when  her 
thought  turned  towards  Mr.  Burton,  she  experi 
enced  an  inward  shudder. 

Of  what  had  occurred,  she  breathed  not  a  sylla 
ble  to  Edith  when  she  joined  her  in  the  chamber  to 
retire  for  the  night. 

"  How  my  heart  aches  for  mother  !"  sighed  Edith, 
as  she  came  in.  "  I  have  been  trying  to  encourage 
her;  but  words  are  of  no  avail.  '  Where  is  all  to 
end  ?'  she  asks ;  and  I  cannot  answer  the  question. 
Oh  dear  !  What  is  to  become  of  us  ?  At  the  rate 
we  are  going  on  now,  every  thing  must  soon  be  lost. 
To  think  of  what  we  have  sacrificed  and  are  stil. 
8* 


90  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


sacrificing,  yet  all  to  no  purpose.  Every  comfort  is 
gone.  Strangers,  who  have  no  sympathy  with  us, 
have  come  into  our  house;  and  mother  is  compelled 
to  bear  all  manner  of  indignities  from  people  who 
are  in  every  way  her  inferiors.  Yet,  for  all,  we  are 
losing  instead  of  gaining.  Ah  me  !  No  wonder  she 
is  heart-sick  and  utterly  discouraged.  How  could 
it  be  otherwise  ?" 

Miriam  heard  and  felt  every  word ;  but  she  made 
no  answer.  Thought,  however,  was  busy,  and  re 
mained  busy  long  after  sleep  had  brought  back  to 
the  troubled  heart  of  Edith  its  even  pulsations. 

"  I  am  rich."  These  words  of  Mr.  Burton  were 
constantly  recurring  to  her  mind.  It  was  in  vain 
that  she  turned  from  the  idea  presented  with  them : 
it  grew  more  and  more  distinct  each  moment.  Yes, 
there  was  a  way  of  relief  opened  for  her  mother, 
of  safety  for  the  family,  and  Miriam  saw  it  plainly, 
yet  shuddered  as  she  looked,  and  closed  her  eyes, 
like  one  about  to  leap  from  a  fearful  height. 

Hour  after  hour  Miriam  lay  awake,  pondering 
the  new  aspect  which  things  had  assumed,  and  gazing 
down  the  fearful  abyss  into  which,  in  a  spirit  of 
self-devotion,  she  was  seeking  to  find  the  courage  to 
leap. 

"  I  am  rich."  Ever  and  anon  these  words  sound 
ed  in  her  ears.  As  the  wife  of  Burton,  she  could 
at  once  lift  her  mother  out  of  her  present  unhappy 
situation.  Thus,  before  the  hour  of  midnight  came 


TAKING    BOARDERS.  91 

and  went,  she  thought.  He  had  offered  her  his 
hand.  She  might  accept  the  offer,  on  condition  of 
his  settling  an  income  upon  her  mother. 

This  the  tempter  whispered  in  her  ears,  and  she 
hearkened,  in  exquisite  pain,  to  the  suggestion. 

When  Edith  awoke  on  the  next  morning,  Miriam 
slept  soundly  by  her  side  ;  but  Edith  observed  that 
her  face  was  pale  and  troubled,  and  that  tears  were 
on  her  cheeks.  At  breakfast  time,  she  did  not  ap 
pear  at  the  table;  and  when  her  mother  sent  to  her 
room  she  returned  for  answer  that  she  was  not  very 
well.  The  whole  of  the  day  she  spent  in  her  cham 
ber,  and,  during  all  the  time,  was  struggling  against 
the  instinctive  repulsion  felt  towards  the  man  who 
had  made  her  an  offer  of  marriage. 

At  supper  time,  she  reappeared  at  the  table  with  a 
calm,  yet  sad  face.  As  she  was  passing  from  the 
dining  room  after  tea,  Burton  came  to  her  side  and 
whispered — 

"  Can  I  have  a  word  with  you  in  the  parlour,  Mi 
riam  ?" 

The  young  girl  neither  looked  up  nor  spoke,  but 
moved  along  by  his  side,  and  descended  with  him  to 
the  parlour,  where  they  were  alone. 

"  Miriam,"  said  Burton,  as  he  placed  himself  by 
her  side  on  the  sofa,  "  have  you  thought  seriously 
of  what  I  said  last  evening  ?  Can  you  reciprocate 
the  ardent  sentiments  I  expressed  ?" 

"  Oh;  sir  I"  returned  Miriam,  looking  up  artlessly 


92  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


in  his  face,  "  I  am  too  young  to  listen  to  words  like 
these." 

"You  are  a  woman,  Miriam,"  replied  Burton, 
earnestly — "  a  lovely  woman,  with  a  heart  overflow 
ing  with  pure  affections.  Deeply  have  you  interest 
ed  my  feelings  from  the  first ;  and  now  I  ask  you 
to  be  mine.  As  I  was  going  to  say  last  evening,  I 
am  rich,  and  will  surround  you  with  every  comfort 
and  elegance  that  money  can  obtain.  Dearest  Mi 
riam,  say  that  you  will  accept  the  hand  I  now  offer 
you." 

"  My  mother  will  never  consent,"  said  the  trem 
bling  girl,  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Your  mother  is  in  trouble.  I  have  long  seen 
that,"  remarked  Mr.  Burton,  "  and  have  long  want 
ed  to  advise  and  befriend  her.  Put  it  in  my  power 
to  do  so,  and  then  ask  for  her  what  you  will." 

This  was  touching  the  right  key,  and  Burton  saw 
it  in  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  you  have  said  truly,"  replied  Miriam ; 
"  my  mother  is  in  great  trouble.  Ah  !  what  would 
I  not  do  for  her  relief  ?" 

"Ask  for  your  mother  what  you  will,  Miriam,"*1 
said  Burton. 

The  maiden's  eyes  were  upon  the  floor,  and  the 
rapid  heaving  of  her  bosom  showed  that  her  thoughts 
were  busy  in  earnest  debate.  At  length,  looking 
up,  she  said — 

"  Will  you  lift  her  out  of  her  present  embarrassed 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  93 

position,  and  settle  upon  her  an  income  sufficient  for 
herself  and  family  ?" 

"  I  will,"  was  the  prompt  answer.  "  And  now, 
my  dear  Miriam,  name  the  sum  you  wish  her  to 
receive." 

Another  long  silence  followed. 

"  Ah,  sir !"  at  length  said  the  maiden,  "  in  what 
a  strange,  humiliating  position  am  I  placed !" 

"  Do  not  speak  thus,  Miriam.  I  understand  all 
better  than  words  can  utter  it.  Will  an  income  of 
two  thousand  dollars  a  year  suffice  ?" 

"  It  is  more  than  I  could  ask." 

"  Enough.  The  moment  you  are  mine,  that  sum 
will  be  settled  on  your  mother." 

Miriam  arose  up  quickly,  as  Burton  said  this, 
murmuring — 

"  Let  me  have  a  few  days  for  reflection,"  and,  ere 
he  could  prevent  her,  glided  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Two  weeks  more  went  by,  and  the  pressure  upon 
Mrs.  Darlington  was  heavier  and  heavier.  Her  in 
come  was  below  her  table  expenses  and  servant-hire, 
and  all  her  reserve  fund  being  exhausted,  she  felt 
the  extremity  of  her  circumstances  more  than  at 
any  time  before.  To  bear  longer  the  extra  weight 
of  poor,  deserted  Mrs.  Marion  and  her  two  children 


94  TAKING  LOARDERS. 


was  felt  to  be  impossible.  With  painful  reluctance 
did  Mrs.  Darlington  slowly  make  up  her  mind  to 
say  to  Mrs.  Marion  that  she  must  seek  anothei 
home ;  and  for  this  purpose  she  one  day  waited  upon 
her  in  her  room.  As  tenderly  and  as  delicately  as 
possible  did  she  approach  the  subject.  A  word  or 
two  only  had  she  said,  when  Mrs.  Marion,  with  tears 
upon  her  face,  replied, — 

"  Pardon  me  that  I  have  so  long  remained  a  bur 
den  upon  you.  Had  I  known  where  to  go,  or  what 
to  do,  I  would  not  have  added  my  weight  to  the 
heavy  ones  you  have  had  to  bear.  Daily  have  I 
lived  in  hope  that  my  husband  would  return.  But 
my  heart  is  sick  with  hope  deferred.  It  is  time 
now  that  I  began  the  work  of  self-dependence." 

"Where  can  you  go  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Darlington. 

"I  know  not,"  sadly  returned  Mrs.  Marion. 
"  My  only  relative  is  a  poor  aunt,  with  scarcely  the 
ability  to  support  herself.  But  I  will  see  her  to 
day.  Perhaps  she  can  advise  me  what  to  do." 

When  Mrs.  Marion  returned  from  this  visit  to 
her  aunt,  she  looked  very  sad.  Mrs.  Darlington 
was  in  the  passage  as  she  came  in ;  but  she  passed 
her  without  speaking,  and  hurried  up  to  her  cham 
ber.  Neither  at  tea  time  on  that  evening  nor  at 
breakfast  time  on  the  next  morning  did  she  appear, 
though  food  for  herself  and  children  was  sent  to 
her  room.  Deeply  did  Mrs.  Darlington  and  her 
daughters  suffer  on  account  of  the  step  they  were 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  95 

compelled  to  take,  but  stern  necessity  left  them  no 
alternative.  During  the  day,  Mrs.  Marion  went 
out  again  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  when  she  came 
back  she  announced  that  she  would  leave  on  the 
next  day.  She  looked  even  sadder  than  before. 
Some  inquiries  as  to  where  she  was  going  were 
made,  but  she  evaded  them.  On  the  day  following, 
a  carriage  came  for  her,  and  she  parted  with  her 
kind  friends,  uttering  the  warmest  expressions  of 
gratitude. 

"  I  have  turned  her  from  the  house  !"  said  Mrs. 
Darlington,  in  a  tone  of  deep  regret,  as  she  closed 
the  door  upon  the  poor  creature.  "  How  would  I 
like  my  own  child  treated  thus  ?" 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  she  was  so  unhappy, 
owing  to  this  circumstance,  that  she  could  scarcely 
attend  to  any  thing. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Mrs.  Marion  went  when 
she  left  our  house  ?"    said  Edith  to  her  mother, 
about  two  weeks  afterwards.     There  was  a  troubled 
look  in  Edith's  face  as  she  asked  this  question. 
"  No.     Where  is  she  1" 
"  At  Blockley." 
"What!" 

"  In  the  Alms-house  !" 
"  Edith  I" 

"  It  is  too  true.  I  have  just  learned  that,  when 
she  left  here,  it  was  to  take  up  her  abod?,  among 
paupers.  She  had  no  other  home." 


96  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


Mrs.  Darlington  clasped  her  hands  together,  and 
was  about  giving  expression  to  her  feelings,  when  a 
domestic  came  in  and  said  that  Mr.  Ellis  was  in  the 
parlour,  and  wished  to  see  her  immediately. 

"Where  is  Miriam?"  asked  the  brother,  in  a 
quick  voice,  the  moment  Mrs.  Darlington  entered 
the  parlour,  where  he  awaited  her. 

"  She's  in  her  room,  I  believe.    Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Are  you  certain  ?  Go  up,  Edith,  quickly,  and 
see." 

The  manner  of  Mr.  Ellis  was  so  excited  that 
Edith  did  not  pause  to  hear  more,  but  flew  up  stairs. 
In  a  few  moments  she  returned,  saying  that  her 
sister  was  not  there,  and  that,  moreover,  on  looking 
into  her  drawers,  she  found  them  nearly  empty. 

"  Then  it  was  her  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ellis. 

"Where  is  she?  Where  did  you  see  her?" 
eagerly  asked  both  mother  and  sister,  their  faces 
becoming  as  pale  as  ashes. 

"  I  saw  her  in  a  carriage  with  a  notorious  gam 
bler  and  scoundrel  named  Burton.  There  was  a 
trunk  on  behind,  and  they  were  driving  towards  the 
wharf.  It  is  ten  minutes  before  the  boat  starts  for 
New  York,  and  I  may  save  her  yet !" 

And,  with  these  words,  Mr.  Ellis  turned  abruptly 
away,  and  hurried  from  the  house.  So  paralyzed 
were  both  Mrs.  Darlington  and  Edith  by  this  dread 
ful  announcement,  that  neither  of  them  had  for  a 
time,  the  power  of  utterance.  Then  both,  as  by  a 


TAKING    BOARDERS.  97 

common  impulse,  arose  and  went  up  to  the  chamber 
where  Miriam  slept.  Almost  the  first  thing  that 
met  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Darlington  was  a  letter,  partly 
concealed  by  a  book  on  the  mantel-piece.  It  was 
addressed  to  her.  On  breaking  the  seal,  she  read — 

"  MY  DEAR,  DEAR  MOTHER  :  I  shall  be  away  from 
you  only  a  little  while;  and,  when  I  return,  I  will 
come  with  relief  for  all  your  present  troubles.  Do 
not  blame  me,  dear  mother  !  What  I  have  done  is 
for  your  sake.  It  almost  broke  my  heart  to  see  you 
so  pressed  down  and  miserable.  And,  then,  there 
was  no  light  ahead.  Mr.  Burton,  who  has  great 
wealth,  offered  me  his  hand.  Only  on  condition  of 
a  handsome  settlement  upon  you  would  I  accept  of 
it.  Forgive  me  that  I  have  acted  without  consulta 
tion.  I  deemed  it  best.  In  a  little  while,  I  will 
be  back  to  throw  myself  into  your  arms,  and  then 
to  lift  you  out  of  your  many  troubles.  How  purely 
and  tenderly  I  love  you,  mother,  dear  mother  !  I  need 
not  say.  It  is  from  this  love  that  I  am  now  acting. 
Take  courage,  mother.  Be  comforted.  We  shall 
yet  be  happy.  Farewell,  for  a  little  while.  In  a 
few  days  I  will  be  with  you  again. 

"  MIRIAM." 

As  Mrs.  Darlington  read  the  last  sentence  of  this 
letter,  Henry,  her  son,  who  had  not  been  home  since 
he  went  out  at  breakfast-time,  came  hurriedly  into 
the  room,  and,  in  an  excited  manner,  said— 


TAKING   BOARDERS. 

"  Mother,  I  want  ten  dollars  !" 

The  face  of  the  young  man  was  flushed,  and  his 
eyes  unsteady.  It  was  plain,  at  a  glance,  that  he 
had  been  drinking. 

Mrs.  Darlington  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  before  Edith  had  seen  the  contents  of  Miriam's 
letter,  placed  it  in  his  hands. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  exclaimed,  after 
running  his  eyes  over  it  hurriedly.  "  Miriam  gone 
off  with  that  Burton  !" 

The  letter  dropped  upon  the  floor,  and  Henry 
clasped  his  hands  together  with  a  gesture  of  pain. 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Burton  ?  What  do  you  know  of 
him  ?"  asked  Edith. 

"  I  know  him  to  be  a  man  of  the  vilest  character, 
and  a  gambler  into  the  bargain  !  Rich  !  Gracious 
heaven !" 

And  the  young  man  struck  his  hands  against  his 
forehead,  and  glanced  wildly  from  his  pale-faced 
mother  to  his  paler  sister. 

"  And  you  knew  the  character  of  this  man,  Hen 
ry  !"  said  Mrs.  Darlington.  There  was  a  smiting 
rebuke  in  her  tone.  "  You  knew  him,  and  did  not 
make  the  first  effort  to  protect  your  young,  confid 
ing,  devoted  sister  !  Henry  Darlington,  the  blood 
af  her  murdered  happiness  will  never  be  washed 
from  the  skirts  of  your  garments  !" 

"  Mother !  mother !"  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
putting  up  his  hands  to  enforce  the  deprecation  in 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  99 

his  voice,  "  do  not  speak  so,  or  I  will  go  beside  my 
self  I  But  where  is  she?  When  did  she  go?  I 
will  fly  in  pursuit.  It  may  not  yet  be  too  late." 

"  Your  Uncle  Hiram  saw  her  in  a  carriage  with 
Mr.  Burton,  on  their  way,  as  he  supposed,  to  the 
steamboat  landing.  He  has  gone  to  intercept  them, 
if  possible/7 

Henry  drew  his  watch  from  his  pocket,  and,  as 
he  glanced  at  the  time,  sank  into  a  chair,  murmur 
ing,  in  a  low  voice  of  anguish— 

"It  is  too  late!" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WHEN  Mr.  Ellis  left  the  house  of  his  sister,  he 
called  a  carriage  that  happened  to  be  going  by,  and 
reached  the  wharf  at  Walnut  street  in  time  to  spring 
on  board  of  the  steamboat  just  as  the  plank  was 
drawn  in  at  the  gangway.  He  then  passed  along 
the  boat  until  he  came  to  the  ladies'  cabin,  which 
he  entered.  Almost  the  first  persons  he  saw  were 
Burton  and  his  niece.  The  eyes  of  Miriam  rested 
upon  him  at  the  same  moment,  and  she  drew  her 
veil  quickly,  hoping  that  she  was  not  recognised. 
Hiram  Ellis  did  not  hesitate  a  moment,  but,  walking 
up  to  where  Miriam  sat,  stooped  to  her  ear,  and  said, 
in  a  low,  anxious  voice — 

"  Miriam,  are  you  married  yet  ?" 


100  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


Miriam  did  not  reply.  \ 

"  Speak,  child.     Are  you  married  ?"  Vv^ 

"No,"  came  in  a  half  audible  murmur. 
"  Thank  God  !  thank  God !"  fell  in  low  accents 
from  the  lips  of  Mr.  Ellis. 

"  Who  are  you,  sir?"  now  spoke  up  Burton,  whom 
surprise  had  till  now  kept  silent.  There  was  a 
fiery  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"  The  uncle  of  this  dear  girl,  and  one  who  knows 
you  well/'  was  answered,  in  a  stern  voice.  "  Knows 
you  to  be  unworthy  to  touch  even  the  hem  of  her 
garment." 

A  dark  scowl  lowered  upon  the  face  of  Burton. 
But  Mr.  Ellis  returned  his  looks  of  anger  glance  for 
glance.  Miriam  was  in  terror  at  this  unexpected 
scene,  and  trembled  like  an  aspen.  Instinctively 
she  shrank  towards  her  uncle. 

Two  or  three  persons,  who  sat  near,  were  at 
tracted  by  the  excitement  visible  in  the  manner  of 
all  three,  although  they  heard  nothing  that  was  said. 
Burton  saw  that  they  were  observed,  and,  bending 
towards  Mr.  Ellis,  said — 

'*  This,  sir,  is  no  place  for  a  scene.  A  hundred 
eyes  will  soon  be  upon  us." 

"  More  than  one  pair  of  which,"  replied  Mr.  Ellis, 
promptly,  "  will  recognise  in  you  a  noted  .gambler, 
who  has  at  least  one  wife  living,  if  no  more." 

As  if  stung  by  a  serpent,  Burton  started  to  his 
feet  and  retired  from  the  cabin.  * 


TAKING   fcO^DEES.  101 

"Oh,  uncle  !  can  what .  joii  say,  of  titfs  tnarf  *>Q 
true  ?"  asked  Miriam,  With  a  blanching  face. 

"  Too  true,  iny  dear  child  !  too  true  !  He  is  one 
of  the  worst  of  men.  Thank  God  that  you  have 
escaped  the  snare  of  the  fowler  I" 

"  Yes,  thank  God  !  thank  God !"  came  trembling 
from  the  lips  of  the  maiden. 

Mr.  Ellis  then  drew  his  niece  to  a  part  of  the 
cabin  where  they  could  converse  without  being 
overheard  by  other  passengers  on  board  of  the  boat. 
To  ^|  inquiry  into  the  reasons  for  so  rash  an  act, 
Miriam  gave  her  uncle  an  undisguised  account  of 
her  mother's  distressed  condition,  and  touchingly 
portrayed  the  anguish  of  mind  which  had  accom 
panied  her  reluctant  assent  to  the  offer  of  Burton. 

"  And  all  this  great  sacrifice  was  on  your  mother's 
account  V  said  Mr.  Ellis. 

"  All !  all !  He  agreed  to  settle  upon  her  the  sum 
of  two  thousand  dollars  a  year,  if  I  would  become 
his  wife.  This  would  have  made  the  family  com 
fortable." 

"  And  you  most  wretched.  Better,  a  thousand 
times  better,  have  gone  down  to  your  grave,  Miriam, 
than  become  the  wife  of  that  man.  But  for  the 
providential  circumstance  of  my  seeing  you  in  the 
carriage  with  him,  all  would  have  been  lost.  Surely, 
you  could  not  have  felt  for  him  the  least  affection." 
"  Oh,  uncle  !  you  can  never  know  what  a  fearful 
I  have  passed  through.  Affection !  It  was. 


102  TAl«$U   BOARDERS. 

instead,  an:  intense  repugnance.  But,  for  my  mo 
ther's  sake,  I  was  prepared  to  make  any  sacrifice 
consistent  with  honour." 

"  Of  all  others,  my  dear  child/7  said  Mr.  Ellis, 
with  much  feeling,  "  a  sacrifice  of  this  kind  is  the 
worst.  It  is  full  of  evil  consequences  that  cannot 
be  enumerated,  and  scarcely  imagined.  You  had 
no  affection  for  this  man,  and  yet,  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  you  were  going  solemnly  to  vow  that  you 
would  love  and  cherish  him  through  life  !" 

A  shudder  ran  through  the  frame  of  Mjpam, 
which  being  perceived  by  Mr.  Ellis,  he  said— 

"  Well  may  you  shudder,  as  you  stand  looking 
down  the  awful  abyss  into  which  you  were  about 
plunging.  You  can  see  no  bottom,  and  you  would 
have  found  none.  There  is  no  condition  in  this  life, 
Miriam,  so  intensely  wretched  as  that  of  a  pure- 
minded,  true-hearted  woman  united  to  a  man  whom 
she  not  only  cannot  love,  but  from  whom  every  in 
stinct  of  her  better  nature  turns  with  disgust.  And 
this  would  have  been  your  condition.  Ah  me! 
m  what  a  fearful  evil  was  this  error  of  your  mother, 
in  opening  a  boarding-house,  about  involving  her 
child!  I  begged  her  not  to  do  so.  I  tried  to  show 
her  the  folly  of  such  a  step.  But  she  would  not 
Uear  me.  And  now  she  is  in  great  trouble  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  uncle.  All  the  money  she  had  when 
she  began  is  spent ;  and  what  she  now  receives  from 
boarders  but  little  more  than  half  pays  expenses/' 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  103 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  But  my  word  was  not 
regarded.  Your  mother  is  no  more  fitted  to  keep  a 
boarding-house  than  a  child  ten  years  old.  It  takes 
a  woman  who  has  been  raised  in  a  different  school, 
who  has  different  habits,  and  a  different  charac 
ter." 

"But  what  can  we  do,  uncle?"  said  Miriam. 

"  What  are  you  willing  to  do  ?" 

"  I  am  willing  to  do  any  thing  that  is  right  for 
me  to  do." 

"All  employments,  Miriam,  are  honourable  so 
far  as  they  are  useful,"  said  Mr.  Ellis,  seriously, 
"  though  false  pride  tries  to  make  us  think  differ 
ently.  And,  strangely  enough,  this  false  pride 
drives  too  many,  in  the  choice  of  employments,  to 
the  hardest,  least  honourable,  and  least  profitable. 
Hundreds  of  women  resort  to  keeping  boarders  as  a 
means  of  supporting  their  families,  when  they  might 
do  it  more  easily,  with  less  exposure  and  greater 
certainty,  in  teaching,  if  qualified,  fine  needle-work, 
or  even  in  the  keeping  of  a  store  for  the  sale  of  fancy 
and  useful  articles.  But  pursuits  of  the  latter  kind 
they  reject  as  too  far  below  them,  and,  in  vainly  at 
tempting  to  keep  up  a  certain  appearance,  exhaust 
what  little  means  they  have.  A  breaking  up  of  the 
family,  and  a  separation  of  its  members,  follow  the 
error  in  too  many  cases." 

Miriam  listened  to  this  in  silence.  Her  uncle 
paused. 


104  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

"  What  can  I  do  to  aid  my  mother  T'  the  young 
girl  asked. 

fi  Could  you  not  give  music  lessons  ?" 

"  I  am  too  young,  I  fear,  for  that.  Too  little 
skilled  in  the  principles  of  music/'  replied  Miriam. 

"  If  competent,  would  you  object  to  teach  ?" 

"  Oh,  no.  Most  gladly  would  I  enter  upon  the 
task,  did  it  promise  even  a  small  return.  How  hap 
py  would  it  make  me  if  I  could  lighten,  by  my  own 
labour,  the  burdens  that  press  so  heavily  upon  our 
mother !" 

"  And  Edith.    How  does  she  feel  on  this  subject  ?" 

"  As  I  do.  Willing  for  any  thing ;  ready  for  any 
change  from  our  present  condition." 

"  Take  courage,  then,  my  dear  child,  take  cou 
rage,"  said  the  uncle,  in  a  cheerful  voice.  "  There 
is  light  ahead." 

"  Oh,  how  distressed  my  mother  will  be  when  she 
finds  I  am  gone  !"  sighed  Miriam,  after  a  brief  si 
lence,  in  which  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  fact  of 
her  absence  from  home.  "  When  can  we  get  back 
again?" 

"  Not  before  ten  o'clock  to-night.  We  must  go 
on  as  far  as  Bristol,  and  then  return  by  the  evening 
line  from  Now  York." 

Another  deep  sigh  heaved  the  troubled  bosom  of 
Miriam,  as  she  uttered,  in  a  low  voice,  speaking  to 
herself — 

"  My  poor  mother  !     Her  heart  will  be  broken  I" 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  105 


CHAPTER  X. 

MEANWHILE  the  hours  passed  with  the  mother, 
sister,  and  brother  in  the  most  agonizing  suspense. 
Henry,  who  had  been  drawn  away  into  evil  company 
by  two  young  men  who  boarded  in  the  house,  was 
neglecting  his  studies,  and  pressing  on  towards 
speedy  ruin.  To  drinking  and  association  with  the 
viciotfll,  he  now  added  gaming.  Little  did  his  mo 
ther  dream  of  the  perilous  ways  his  feet  were  tread 
ing.  On  this  occasion  he  had  come  in,  as  has  been 
seen,  with  a  demand  for  ten  dollars.  When  he  left 
home  in  the  morning,  it  was  in  company  with  the 
young  man  named  Barling.  Instead  of  his  going  to 
the  office  where  he  was  studying,  or  his  companion 
to  his  place  of  business,  they  went  to  a  certain  pub 
lic  house  in  Chestnut  Street,  where  they  first  drank 
at  the  bar. 

"  Shall  we  go  up  into  the  billiard-room  ?"  said 
Barling,  as  they  turned  from  the  white  marble 
counter  at  which  they  had  been  drinking. 

"  I  don't  care.  Have  you  time  to  play  a  game  ?" 
replied  Henry. 

"  Oh,  yes.  We're  not  very  busy  at  the  store  to-day." 

So  the  two  young  men  ascended  to  the  billiard- 
room,  and  spent  a  couple  of  hours  there.  Both 
played  very  well,  and  were  pretty  equally  matched. 


106  TAKING   BOARDERS. 

From  the  billiard-room,  they  proceeded  to  another 
part  of  the  house,  more  retired,  and  there,  at  the 
suggestion  of  Barling,  tried  a  game  at  cards  for  a 
small  stake.  Young  Darlington  was  loser  at  first, 
but,  after  a  time,  regained  his  losses  and  made  some 
advance  on  his  fellow-player.  Hours  passed  in 
playing  and  drinking;  and  finally,  Darlington, 
whose  good  fortune  did  not  continue,  parted  with 
every  sixpence. 

"  Lend  me  a  dollar,"  said  he  as  the  last  game 
went  against  him. 

The  dollar  was  lent,  and  the  playing  renewed. 

Thus  it  went  on,  hour  after  hour,  neither  of  the 
young  men  stopping  to  eat  any  thing,  though  both 
drank  too  frequently.  At  last,  Darlington  was  ten 
dollars  in  debt  to  Barling,  who,  on  being  asked  for 
another  loan,  declined  any  further  advances.  Stung 
by  the  refusal,  Henry  said  to  him,  rising  as  he 
spoke — 

"  Do  you  mean  by  this  that  you  are  afraid  I  will 
never  return  the  money  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  Barling.  "  But  I  don't  want  to 
play  against  you  any  longer.  Your  luck  is  bad." 

UI  can  beat  you,"  said  Darlington. 

"  You  havVt  done  it  to-day  certainly/'  answered 
Barling. 

"  Will  you  wait  here  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ?"  asked 
Henry. 

«  For  what  ?" 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  107 

"I  want  to  pay  you  off  and  begin  again.     I  am 
going  for  some  money." 

"  Yes,  I'll  wait,"  replied  the  young  man. 
"  Very  well.  I'll  be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 
It  was  for  this  work  and  for  this  purpose  that 
Henry  Darlington  came  to  his  mother  just  at  the 
moment  the  absence  of  Miriam  and  her  purpose  in 
leaving  had  been  discovered.  The  effect  of  the 
painful  news  on  the  young  man  has  already  been 
described.  From  the  time  he  became  aware  of  the 
fact  that  Miriam  had  gone  away  with  Burton  for  the 
purpose  of  becoming  his  wife,  until  ten  o'clock  at 
night,  he  was  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  As  the  uncle 
could  not  be  found  at  the  office  where  he  wrote,  nor 
at.  the  house  where  he  boarded,  it  was  concluded  that 
he  had  reached  the  boat  before  its  departure,  and 
gone  on  with  the  fugitives  in  the  train  to  New  York. 
Nothing  was  therefore  left  for  the  distressed  family 
but  to  await  his  return. 

How  anxiously  passed  the  hours  !  At  tea  time 
Edith  only  made  her  appearance.  Henry  and  his 
mother  remained  in  the  chamber  of  the  latter.  As 
for  the  young  man,  he  was  cast  down  and  distressed 
beyond  measure,  vexing  his  spirit  with  self-accusa 
tions  that  were  but  too  well  founded. 

"  Oh,  mother !"  said  he,  while  they  were  alone, 
starting  up  from  where  he  had  been  sitting  with  his 
face  buried  in  his  hands — "  oh,  mother  !  what  evils 
have  come  through  this  opening  of  our  house,  for 


108  TAKING  BOARDERS. 


strangers  to  enter  !  Miriam,  our  sweet,  gentle,  pure- 
hearted  Miriam,  has  been  lured  away  by  one  of  the 
worst  of  men ;  and  I" — the  young  man  checked 
himself  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  continued — "  and 
I  have  been  drawn  away  from  right  paths  into  those 
that  lead  to  sure  destruction.  Mother,  I  have  been 
in  great  danger.  Until  Barling  and  Mason  came 
into  our  family,  I  was  guiltless  of  any  act  that  could 
awaken  a  blush  of  shame  upon  my  cheek.  Oh,  that 
I  had  never  met  them  !" 

"  Henry  !  Henry  !  what  do  you  mean  by  this  ?" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Darlington,  in  a  voice  full  of  anguish. 

"  I  have  been  standing  on  the  brink  of  a  preci 
pice/'  replied  the  young  man  with  more  calmness. 
"  But  a  hand  has  suddenly  drawn  me  away,  and  I 
am  trembling  at  the  danger  I  have  escaped.  Oh, 
mother,  will  you  not  give  up  this  mode  of  life  ?  We 
have  none  of  us  been  happy.  I  have  never  felt  as 
if  I  had  a  home  since  it  began.  And  you — what  a 
slave  have  you  been  !  and  how  unhappy  !  Can  no 
thing  be  done  except  keeping  boarders  ?  Oh,  what 
would  I  not  give  for  the  dear  seclusion  of  a  home 
where  no  stranger's  foot  could  enter !" 

"  Some  other  mode  of  living  must  be  sought,  my 
son,"  replied  Mrs.  Darlington.  "  Added  to  all  the 
evils  attendant  on  the  present  mode,  is  that  of  a 
positive  loss  instead  of  a  profit.  Several  hundred 
dollars  have  been  wasted  already,  and  daily  am  I 
going  in  debt." 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  109 

"  Then,  mother,  let  us  change  at  once,"  replied 
the  young  man.  "It  would  be  better  to  shrink 
together  in  a  single  room  than  to  continue  as  we  are. 
I  will  seek  a  clerkship  in  a  store,  and  earn  what  I 
can  to  help  support  the  family." 

"  I  can  think  of  nothing  now  but  Miriam !"  said 
Mrs.  Darlington.  "  Oh,  if  she  were  back  again,  safe 
from  the  toils  that  have  been  thrown  around  her,  I 
think  I  would  be  the  most  thankful  of  mortals  ! 
Oh,  my  child  !  my  child  I" 

What  could  Henry  say  to  comfort  his  mother  ? 
Nothing.  And  he  remained  silent. 

Long  after  this,  Mrs.  Darlington,  with  Henry  and 
Edith,  were  sitting  together  in  painful  suspense. 
No  word  had  been  spoken  by  either  for  the  space  of 
nearly  an  hour.  The  clock  struck  ten. 

"  I  would  give  worlds  to  see  my  dear,  dear  child !" 
murmured  Mrs.  Darlington. 

Just  then  a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door  and 
stopped.  Henry  sprang  down  stairs;  but  neither 
Edith  nor  her  mother  could  move  from  where  they 
sat.  As  the  former  opened  the  street  door,  Miriam 
stood  with  her  uncle  on  the  threshold.  Henry 
looked  at  her  earnestly  and  tenderly  for  an  instant, 
and  then,  staggering  back,  leaned  against  the  wall  for 
support. 

"  Where  is  your  mother  ?"  asked  Mr.  Ellis. 

"In  her  own  room,"  said  Henry,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  audible. 

10 


110  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


Miriam  sprang  up  the  stairs  with  the  fleetness  of 
an  antelope,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  was  sobbing 
on  her  mother's  bosom. 

"  Miriam  !  Miriam  !"  said  Mrs.  Darlington,  in  a 
thrilling  voice,  "  do  you  return  the  same  as  when 
you  left?" 

"  Yes,  thank  God !"  came  from  the  maiden's  lips. 

"  Thank  God !  thank  God  I"  responded  the  mo 
ther,  wildly.  "Oh,  my  child,  what  a  fearful  misery 
you  have  escaped !" 

In  a  few  minutes,  the  mother  and  sisters  were 
joined  by  Henry. 

"  Where  is  your  uncle  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Darlington. 

"  He  has  gone  away ;  but  says  that  he  will  see 
you  to-morrow. 

Over  the  remainder  of  that  evening  we  will  here 
draw  a  veil. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

ON  the  next  morning,  only  Mrs.  Darlington  met 
her  boarders  at  the  breakfast-table,  when  she  an 
nounced  to  them  that  she  had  concluded  to  close 
her  present  business,  and  seek  some  new  mode  of 
sustaining  her  family ;  at  the  same  time,  desiring 
each  one  to  find  another  home  as  early  as  possible. 

At  the  close  of  the  third  day  after  this,  Mrs.  Dar 
lington  sat  down  to  her  evening  meal  with  only  her 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  Ill 


children  gathered  at  the  table.  A  subdued  and 
tranquil  spirit  pervaded  each  bos  ",<  even  though  a 
dark  veil  was  drawn  against  the  futi  re.  To  a  long 
and  troubled  excitement  there  had  succeeded  a  calm. 
It  was  good  to  be  once  more  alone,  and  they  felt  this. 

"  Through  what  a  scene  of  trial,  disorder,  and 
Buffering  have  we  passed  !"  said  Edith.  "  It  seems 
as  if  I  had  just  awakened  from  a  dream." 

"  And  such  a  dream  I"  sighed  Miriam. 

"  Would  that  it  were  but  a  dream !"  said  Mrs. 
Darlington.  "But,  alas!  the  wrecks  that  are 
around  us  too  surely  testify  the  presence  of  a  de 
vastating  storm." 

"  The  storm  has  passed  away,  mother,"  said  Edith; 
"  and  we  will  look  for  calmer  and  brighter  skies." 

"No  bright  skies  for  us,  I  fear,  my  children," 
returned  the  mother,  with  a  deeper  tinge  of  sadness 
in  her  voice. 

"  They  are  bright  this  hour  to  what  they  were  a 
few  days  since,"  said  Edith,  "  and  I  am  sure  they 
will  grow  brighter.  I  feel  much  encouraged.  "Where 
the  heart  is  willing,  the  way  is  sure  to  open.  Both 
Miriam  and  I  are  willing  to  do  all  in  our  power, 
and  I  am  sure  we  can  do  much.  We  have  abilitv 
to  teach  others;  and  the  exercise  of  that  ability  will 
Dring  a  sure  reward.  I  like  Uncle  Hiram's  sugges 
tion  very  much." 

"  But  the  humiliation  of  soliciting  scholars,"  said 
the  mother. 


112  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


"To  do  right  is  not  humiliating,"  quickly  replied 
Edith. 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  this,  my  child ;  but  can  you  go 
to  Mrs.  Lionel,  for  instance,  with  whose  family  we 
were  so  intimate,  and  solicit  her  to  send  Emma  and 
Cordelia  to  the  school  you  propose  to  open,  without 
a  smarting  sense  of  humiliation  ?  I  am  sure  you 
cannot." 

Edith  communed  with  her  own  thoughts  for  some 
moments,  and  then  answered — 

"  If  I  gave  way  to  false  pride,  mother,  this  might 
be  so ;  but  I  must  overcome  what  is  false  and  evil. 
This  is  as  necessary  for  my  happiness  as  the  exter 
nal  good  we  seek — nay,  far  more  so.  Too  many 
who  have  moved  in  the  circle  where  we  have  been 
moving  for  years,  strangely  enough  connect  an  idea 
of  degradation  with  the  office  of  teaching  children. 
But  is  there  on  the  earth  a  higher  or  more  import 
ant  use  than  instructing  the  mind  and  training  the 
heart  of  young  immortals  ?  It  has  been  beautifully 
and  truly  said,  that  'Earth  is  the  nursery  of  Hea 
ven/  The  teacher,  then,  is  a  worker  in  God's  own 
garden.  Is  it  not  so,  mother  ?" 

"You  think  wisely,  my  child.  God  grant  that 
your  true  thoughts  may  sustain  you  in  the  trials  to 
come  !"  replied  Mrs.  Darlington. 

The  door-bell  rang  as  the  family  were  rising  from 
the  tea-table.  The  visitor  was  Mr.  Ellis.  He  had 
come  to  advise  with  and  assist  the  distressed  mother 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  113 

and  her  children ;  and  his  words  were  listened  to 
with  far  more  deference  than  was  the  case  a  year 
before.  Nine  or  ten  months'  experience  in  keeping 
a  boarding-house  had  corrected  many  of  the  false 
views  of  Mrs.  Darlington,  and  she  wfts  now  pre 
pared  to  make  an  effort  for  her  family  in  a  different 
spirit  from  that  exhibited  in  the  beginning.  The 
plan  proposed  by  her  brother — a  matter-of-fact  kind 
of  person — was  the  taking  of  a  house  at  a  more  mo 
derate  rent,  and  opening  a  school  for  young  children. 
Many  objections  and  doubts  were  urged;  but  he 
overruled  them  all,  and  obtained,  in  the  end,  the 
cordial  consent  of  every  member  of  the  family. 
During  the  argument  which  preceded  the  final 
decision  of  the  matter,  Mrs.  Darlington  said — 

"  Suppose  the  girls  should  not  be  able  to  get 
scholars  ?" 

"  Let  them  see  to  this  beforehand." 

"Many  may  promise  to  send,  and  afterwards 
change  their  minds." 

"Let  them,"  replied  the  brother.  "If,  at  the  end 
of  the  first,  second,  and  third  years,  you  have  not 
made  your  expenses,  I  will  supply  the  deficiency." 

"You!" 

"  Yes.  The  fact  is,  sister,  if  you  will  be  guided 
in  some  respects  by  my  judgment,  I  will  stand  by 
you,  and  see  you  safely  over  every  difficulty.  Your 
boarding-house  experiment  I  did  not  approve.  I 
saw  from  the  beginning  how  it  would  nnd,  and  T 
10* 


114  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


wished  to  see  the  end  as  quickly  as  possible.  It 
has  come,  and  I  am  glad  of  it ;  and,  still  further, 
thankful  that  the  disaster  has  not  been  greater.  If 
you  only  had  now  the  five  or  six  hundred  dollars 
wasted  in  a^ain  experiment  during  the  past  year, 
how  much  the  sum  might  do  for  you !  But  we  will 
not  sigh  over  this.  As  just  said,  I  will  stan'd  by 
you  in  the  new  experiment,  and  see  that  you  do  not 
fall  again  into  embarrassment." 

Henry  was  present  at  this  interview,  but  remained 
silent  during  the  whole  time.  Since  the  day  of  Mi 
riam's  departure  with  Burton,  and  safe  return,  a 
great  change  had  taken  place  in  the  young  nian. 
He  was  like  one  starting  up  from  sleep  on  the  brink 
of  a  fearful  precipice,  and  standing  appalled  at  the 
danger  he  had  escaped  almost  by  a  miracle.  The 
way  in  which  he  had  begun  to  walk  he  saw  to  be 
the  way  to  sure  destruction,  and  his  heart  shrunk 
with  shame  and  trembled  with  dismay. 

"  Henry,"  said  the  uncle,  after  an  hour's  conver 
sation  with  his  sister  and  Edith,  "  I  would  like  to 
talk  with  you  alone." 

Mrs.  Darlington  and  her  daughters  left  the 
room. 

"  Henry,"  said  Mr.  Ellis,  as  soon  as  the  rest  had 
withdrawn,  "  you  are  old  enough  to  do  something 
to  nelp  on.  All  the  burden  ought  not  to  come  on 
Edith  and  Miriam." 

11  Only  show  me  what  I  can  do,  uncle,  and  I  am 


TAKING   BOARDERS  115 

ready  to  put  my  hands  to  tlie  work/'  was  Henry's 
prompt  reply. 

tl  It  will  be  years  before  you  can  expect  an  income 
from  your  profession." 

"I  know,  I  know.  That  is  what  discourages 
me." 

"  I  can  get  you  the  place  of  clerk  in  an  insurance 
office,  at  a  salary  of  five  hundred  dollars  a  year. 
Will  you  accept  it  ?" 

"  Gladly  !"  The  face  of  the  young  man  bright 
ened  as  if  the  sun  had  shone  upon  it  suddenly. 

"  You  will  have  several  hours  each  day,  in  which 
to  continue  your  law  reading,  and  will  get  admitted 
to  the  bar  early  enough.  Keep  your  mother  and 
sisters  for  two  or  three  years,  and  then  they  will  be 
in  a  condition  to  sustain  you  until  you  make  a  prac 
tice  in  your  profession." 

But  to  this  the  mother  and  sisters,  when  it  was 
mentioned  to  them,  objected.  They  were  not  will 
ing  to  have  Henry's  professional  studies  interrupted. 
That  would  be  a  great  wrong  to  him. 

"  Not  a  great  wrong,  but  a  great  good,"  answered 
Mr.  Ellis.  "And  I  will  make  this  plain  to  you. 
Henry,  as  I  learn  from  yourself,  has  made  some 
dangerous  associations ;  and  some  important  change 
is  needed  to  help  him  break  away  from  them.  No 
sphere  of  life  is  so  safe  for  a  young  man  as  that 
which  surrounds  profitable  industry  pursued  for  an 
end.  Temptation  rarely  finds  its  way  within  this 


116  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


sphere.  Two  or  three  years  devoted  to  the  duties 
of  a  clerk,  with  the  end  of  aiding  in  the  support  of 
his  mother  and  sisters,  will  do  more  to  give  a  right 
direction  to  Henry's  character — more  to  make  suc 
cess  in  after  life  certain — than  any  thing  else  possible 
now  to  be  done.  The  office  in  which  I  can  get  him 
the  situation  I  speak  of  adjoins  the  one  to  which  I 
am  attached,  and  I  will,  therefore,  have  him  mostly 
under  my  own  eye.  In  this  new  school,  the  ar 
dency  of  his  young  feelings  will  be  duly  chastened, 
and  his  thoughts  turned  more  into  elements  of  use 
fulness.  In  a  word,  sister,  it  will  give  him  self- 
dependence,  and,  in  the  end,  make  a  man  of  him." 

The  force  of  all  this,  and  more  by  this  suggested, 
was  not  only  seen,  but  felt,  by  Mrs.  Darlington ; 
and  when  she  found  her  son  ready  to  accept  the 
offer  made  to  him,  she  withdrew  all  opposition. 

Steps  preliminary  to  the  contemplated  change 
were  immediately  taken.  First  of  all,  Edith  waited 
upon  a  number  of  their  old  friends,  who  had  young 
children,  and  informed  them  that  she  was,  in  con- 
Lection  with  her  sister,  about  opening  a  school. 
Some  were  surprised,  some  pleased,  and  some  indif 
ferent  at  the  announcement ;  but  a  goodly  number 
expressed  pleasure  at  the  opportunity  it  afforded 
them  of  placing  their  younger  children  under  the 
care  of  teachers  in  whose  ability  and  character  they 
had  so  much  confidence.  Thus  was  the  way  made 
plain  before  them 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  117 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  FEW  weeks  later,  and  the  contemplated  change 
was  made.  The  family  removed  into  a  moderate- 
sized  house,  at  a  lower  rent,  and  prepared  to  test 
the  new  mode  of  obtaining  a  livelihood.  A  good 
portion  of  their  furniture  had  been  sold,  besides 
three  gold  watches  and  some  valuable  jewelry  be 
longing  to  Mrs.  Darlington  and  her  two  eldest 
daughters,  in  order  to  make  up  a  sum  sufficient  to 
pay  off  the  debt  contracted  during  the  last  few 
months  of  the  boarding-house  experiment.  The  real 
loss  sustained  by  the  widow  in  this  experiment  fell 
little  short  of  a  thousand  dollars. 

"How  many  scholars  have  you  now?"  asked 
Mrs.  Darlington  of  Edith,  two  months  after  the 
school  was  opened,  as  they  sat  at  tea  one  evening, 
each  member  of  the  family  wearing  a  cheerful  face. 
" Twenty,"  replied  Edith.  "We  received  two 
new  ones  to-day.  Mrs.  Wilmot  came  and  entered 
two  of  her  children;  and  she  said  that  Mrs.  Armorid 
was  going  to  send  her  Florence  so  soon  as  her  quar 
ter  expired  in  the  school  she  is  now  attending." 

"  How  much  will  you  receive  from  your  present 
number  of  scholars  ?"  inquired  Henry. 

"I  made  the  estimate  to-day,"  returned  Edith, 


118  TAKING  BOARDERS. 

"  and  find  that  the  bills  will  come  to  something  like 
a  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  a  quarter." 

"Five  hundred  dollars  a  year/'  said  Henry;  "and 
my  five  hundred  added  to  that  will  make  a  thousand. 
Can't  we  live  on  a  thousand  dollars,  mother  ?" 

"  We  may,  by  the  closest  economy." 

"  Our  school  will  increase/'  remarked  Edith  ; 
"  and  every  increase  will  add  to  our  income.  Oh  ! 
it  looks  so  much  brighter  ahead !  and  we  have  so 
much  real  comfort  in  the  present !  What  a  scene 
of  trial  have  we  passed  through  I" 

"  How  I  ever  bore  up  under  it  is  more  than  I  can 
now  tell/'  said  Mrs.  Darlington,  with  an  involuntary 
shudder.  "And  the  toil,  and  suffering,  and  danger 
throuo-h  which  we  have  come  !  I  cannot  be  sum- 

O 

ciently  thankful  that  we  are  safe  from  the  dreadful 
ordeal,  and  with  so  few  marks  of  the  fire  upon 
us." 

A  silence  followed  this,  in  which  two  hearts,  at 
least,  were  humbled,  yet  thankful,  in  their  self-com 
munion — the  hearts  of  Henry  and  Miriam.  Through 
what  perilous  ways  had  they  come  !  How  near  had 
they  been  to  shipwreck  ! 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Marion !"  said  Edith,  breaking  the 
silence,  at  length.  "  How  often  I  think  of  her !  And 
the  thought  brings  a  feeling  of  condemnation.  Was 
it  right  for  us  to  thrust  her  forth  as  we  did  ?" 

"  Can  she  still  be  in ?" 

"  Oh  no,  no  !"  spoke  up  Henry,  interrupting  his 


TAKING   BOARDERS.  11& 

mother.     "  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  met  her  and 
her  husband  on  the  street  to-day." 

"  Are  you  certain  ?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  them  ?" 

"  No.  They  saw  me,  but  instantly  averted  their 
faces.  Mrs.  Marion  looked  very  pale;  as  if  she  had 
been  sick." 

"Poor  woman!  She  has  had  heart-sickness 
enough/'  said  Mrs.  Darlington.  "  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself  for  turning  her  out  of  the  house.  If 
I  had  known  where  she  was  going !" 

"But  we  did  not  know  that,  mother,"  said 
Edith. 

"We  knew  that  she  had  neither  friends  nor  a 
home,"  replied  the  mother.  "Ah  me  !  when  our 
own  troubles  press  heavily  upon  us,  we  lose  our 
sympathy  for  others ! 

"  It  was  not  so  in  this  case,"  remarked  Edith. 
"  Deeply  did  we  sympathize  with  Mrs.  Marion.  But 
we  could  not  bear  the  weight  without  going  under 
ourselves." 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Darling 
ton,  half  to  herself.  "  We  might  have  kept  up  with 
her  a  little  longer.  But  I  am  glad  from  my  heart 
that  her  husband  has  come  back.  If  he  will  be 
kind  to  his  wife,  I  will  forgive  all  his  indebtedness 
co  me." 
.  A  few  weeks  subsequent  to  this  time,  as  Miriam 


120  TAKING   BOARDERS. 


sat  reading  the  morning  paper,  she  came  upon  a 
brief  account  of  the  arrest,  in  New  Orleans,  of  a 
"  noted  gambler,"  as  it  said,  named  Burton,  on  the 
charge  of  bigamy.  The  paper  dropped  to  the  floor, 
and  Miriam,  with  clasped  hands  and  eyes  instantly 
overflowing  with  tears,  looked  upward,  and  mur 
mured  her  thanks  to  Heaven. 

"  "What  an  escape !"  fell  tremblingly  from  her  lips, 
as  she  arose  and  went  to  her  room  to  hold  com 
munion  with  her  own  thoughts. 

Three  years  have  passed,  and  what  has  been  the 
result  of  the  widow's  new  experiment?  The  school 
prospered  from  the  beginning.  The  spirit  with 
which  Edith  and  Miriam  went  to  work  made  success 
certain.  Parents  who  sent  their  children  were  so 
much  pleased  with  the  progress  they  made,  that 
they  spoke  of  the  new  school  to  their  friends,  and 
thus  gave  it  a  reputation,  that,  ere  a  year  had  elapsed, 
crowded  the  rooms  of  the  sisters.  Mrs.  Darlington  was 
a  woman  who  had  herself  received  a  superior  educa 
tion.  Seeing  that  the  number  of  scholars  increased 
rapidly,  and  made  the  pressure  on  her  daughters  too 
great,  she  gave  a  portion  of  her  time  each  day  to  the 
instruction  of  certain  classes,  and  soon  became  much 
interested  in  the  work.  From  that  time  she  asso 
ciated  herself  in  the  school  with  Edith  and  Miriam. 
Three  years,  as  we  said,  have  passed,  and  now  tho 
profits  on  the  school  are  more  than  sufficient  to  meet 


TAKING  BOARDERS.  121 


all  expenses.  Henry  has  left  his  clerkship,  and  is 
a  member  of  the  bar.  Of  course  he  has  little  or 
no  practice — only  a  few  months  having  elapsed 
since  his  admission;  but  his  mother  and  sisters  are 
fully  able  to  sustain  him  until  he  could  sustain 
himself. 

"  How  much  better  this  is  than  keeping  boarders !" 
said  Edith,  as  she  sat  conversing  with  her  mother 
and  uncle  about  the  prospects  of  the  school. 

"  And  how  much  more  useful  and  honourable  I" 
remarked  Mr.  Ellis.  "In  the  one  case,  you  fed 
only  the  body,  but  now  you  are  dispensing  food  to 
the  immortal  mind.  You  are  moreover  independent 
in  your  own  house.  When  the  day's  work  is  done, 
you  come  together  as  one  family,  and  shut  out  the 
intruding  world.'7 

"Yes,  it  is  better,  far  better,"  replied  Mrs.  Dar 
lington.  "Ah,  that  first  mistake  of  mine  was  a  sad 
one !" 

"Yet  out  of  it  has  come  good,"  said  Mr.  Ellis. 
"  That  painful  experience  corrected  many  false 
views,  and  gave  to  all  your  characters  a  new  and 
higher  impulse.  It  is  through  disappointment, 
trial,  and  suffering,  that  we  grow  wise  here;  and 
true  wisdom  is  worth  the  highest  price  we  are  ever 
called  upon  to  pay  for  it." 

Yes,  it  is  so.  Through  fiery  trials  are  we  puri 
fied.  At  times,  in  our  suffering,  we  feel  as  if  every 
good  thing  in  us  was  about  being  consumed.  But 
11 


122  TAKING    BOARDERS. 


this  never  happens.  No  good  in  our  characters  is 
ever  lost  in  affliction  or  trouble ;  and  we  come  out 
of  these  states  of  pain  wiser  and  better  than  when 
we  entered  them,  and  more  fitted  and  more  willing 
to  act  usefully  our  part  in  the  world. 


PLAIN  SEWING; 

OR, 

HOW  TO  ENCOURAGE  THE  POOR. 


"  Do  you  know  of  any  poor  body  who  does  plain 
sewing?"  asked  Mrs.  Lander  of  a  neighbour  upon 
whom  she  called  for  the  particular  purpose  of  making 
this  inquiry.  «  I  have  a  good  deal  of  work  that  I 
want  done,  and  I  always  like  to  give  my  plain  sew 
ing  to  people  that  need  it." 

"  I  think  I  know  of  a  person  who  will  suit  you," 
replied  Mrs.  Brandon,  the  lady  to  whom  the  appli 
cation  had  been  made.  "  She  is  a  poor  widow 
woman,  with  four  children  dependent  upon  her  for 
support.  She  sews  neatly.  Yesterday  she  brought 
me  home  some  little  drawers  and  night-gowns  that 
were  beautifully  made.  I  am  sure  she  will  please 
you,  and  I  know  she  deserves  encouragement." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"  Mrs.  Walton;  and  she  lives  in  Larkin's  Court." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am.  I  will  send  for  her  this 
morning.  You. say  she  is  very  poor?" 

"You  may  judge  of  that  yourself,  Mrs.  Lander. 

123 


124  PLAIN    SEWING. 


A  woman  who  has  four  children  to  support  by  tho 
labour  of  her  own  hands  cannot  be  very  well  off." 

"No — certainly  not.  Poor  creature!  I  will 
throw  all  I  can  in  her  way,  if  her  work  should 
please  me." 

"  I  am  sure  that  will  be  the  case,  for  she  sews 
very  neatly." 

Mrs.  Lander  having  found  out  a  poor  woman  who 
could  do  plain  sewing — she  was  always  more  ready 
to  employ  persons  in  extreme  poverty  than  those 
who  were  in  more  easy  circumstances — immediately 
sent  a  summons  for  her  to  attend  upon  her  ladyship. 
Mrs.  Walton's  appearance,  when  she  came,  plainly 
enough  told  the  story  of  her  indigence. 

"  Mrs.  Brandon  informs  me,"  said  Mrs.  Lander, 
"that  you  do  plain  sewing  very  well,  and  that  you 
stand  in  need  of  work.  I  always  like  to  encourage 
the  industrious  poor." 

The  woman  inclined  her  head,  and  Mrs.  Lander 
went  on. 

"  Do  you  make  shirts  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  sometimes." 

"Do  you  consider  yourself  a  good  shirt  maker?" 

"  I  don't  call  myself  any  thing  very  extra ;  but 
people  for  whom  I  work  seem  generally  pleased  with 
what  I  do." 

"  I  have  six  shirts  cut  out  for  Mr.  Lander.  How 
soon  can  you  make  them  ?" 

"I  couldn't  make  them  all  in  less  than  a  couple 


PLAIN   SEWING.  125 

of  weeks,  as  I  have  other  work  that  must  be  done 
within  that  time." 

"  Very  well.  That  will  do." 
The  poor  woman  took  the  shirts  home,  feeling 
grateful  to  Mrs.  Brandon  for  having  recommended 
her,  and  thankful  to  get  the  work.  In  order  to  give 
satisfaction  to  both  her  new  customer,  and  those  for 
whom  she  already  had  work  in  the  house,  she  di 
vided  her  time  between  them,  sewing  one  day  for 
Mrs.  Lander  and  the  next  on  the  work  received  be 
fore  hers  came  in.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  three  of 
the  shirts  were  ready,  and,  as  she  needed  very  much 
the  money  she  had  earned  in  making  them,  she 
carried  them  over  to  Mrs.  Lander  on  Saturday  after 
noon. 

"  I  have  three  of  the  shirts  ready,"  said  she,  as 
she  handed  to  the  lady  the  bundle  she  had  brought. 
"Ah!  have  you?"  remarked  Mrs.  Lander,  as, 
with  a  grave  face,  she  opened  the  bundle  and  ex 
amined  the  garments.  This  examination  was  con 
tinued  with  great  minuteness,  and  long  enough 
almost  to  have  counted  every  stitch  in  the  garments. 
She  found  the  shirts  exceedingly  well  made;  much 
better  than  she  had  expected  to  find  them. 

"When  will  you  have  the  others  ready?"  she 
asked,  as  she  laid  them  aside. 

"  I  will  try  and  bring  them  in  next  Saturday." 
"  Very  well." 

Then  came  a  deep  silence.     The  poor  woman  sat 
11  • 


126  PLAIN    SEWING. 

with  the  fingers  of  both  hands  moving  together  nn. 
easily,  and  Mrs.  Lander  looked  away  out  of  the  win 
dow  and  appeared  to  be  intent  upon  something  in 
the  street. 

"Are  these  made  to  please  you?"  Mrs.  Walton 
ventured  to  ask. 

«  They'll  do,"  was  the  brief  answer;  and  then  came 
the  same  dead  silence,  and  the  same  interest  on  the 
part  of  the  lady  in  something  passing  in  the  street. 
Mrs.  Walton  wanted  the  money  she  had  earned 
for  making  the  shirts,  and  Mrs.  Lander  knew  it. 
But  Mrs.  Lander  never  liked  to  pay  out  money,  if  she 
could  help  it ;  and  as  doing  so  always  went  against 
the  grain,  it  was  her  custom  to  put  off  such  un 
pleasant  work  as  long  as  possible.  She  liked  to  en 
courage  the  very  poor,  because  she  knew  they  gene 
rally  worked  cheaper  than  people  who  were  in  easier 
circumstances;  but  the  drawback  in  their  case  was, 
that  they  always  wanted  money  the  moment  their 
work  was  done. 

Badly  as  she  stood  in  need  of  the  money  she  had 
earned,  poor  Mrs.  Walton  felt  reluctant  to  ask  for 
it  until  the  whole  number  of  shirts  she  had  en 
gaged  to  make  were  done;  and  so,  after  sitting  for  a 
little  while  longer,  she  got  up  and  went  away.  It 
happened  that  she  had  expended  her  last  sixpence  on 
that  very  morning,  and  nothing  was  due  to  her  from 
any  one  but  Mrs.  Lander.  Two  days  at  least  would 
elapse  before  she  would  have  any  other  work  ready 


PLAIN   SEWING.  127 

to  take  home,  and  what  to  do  in  the  mean  time  she 
did  not  know.  With  her  the  reward  of  every  day's 
labour  was  needed  when  the  labour  was  done;  but 
now  she  was  unpaid  for  full  four  days'  work,  and 
her  debtor  was  a  lady  much  interested  in  the  welfare 
of  the  poor,  who  always  gave  out  her  plain  sewing 
to  those  who  were  in  need  of  encouragement. 

By  placing  in  pawn  some  few  articles  of  dress, 
and  paying  a  heavy  interest  upon  the  little  sum  of 
money  advanced  thereon,  the  poor  widow  was  able 
to  keep  hunger  from  her  door  until  she  could  finish 
some  work  she  had  in  hand  for  a  lady  more  considerate 
than  Mrs.  Lander.  Then  she  applied  herself  with 
renewed  industry  to  the  three  shirts  yet  to  make, 
which  she  finished  at  the  time  she  promised  to  have 
them  done.  With  the  money  to  be  received  for 
these,  she  was  to  pay  one  dollar  and  a  half  to  get 
her  clothes  from  the  pawnbroker's  shop,  buy  her 
little  boy  a  pair  of  shoes, — he  had  been  from  school 
a  week  for  want  of  them, — and  get  a  supply  of  food 
for  the  many  mouths  she  had  to  feed. 

Mrs.  Lander  received  her  with  that  becoming 
dignity  of  manner  and  gravity  which  certain  persons 
always  assume  when  money  has  to  be  paid  out,  She, 
as  it  behooved  her  to  do,  thoroughly  examined  every 
seam,  line  of  stitching,  and  hem  upon  each  of  the  three 
shirts,  and  then,  after  slowly  laying  the  garments 
upo-n  a  table  sighed,  and  looked  still  graver.  Pooi 
Mrs.  Walton  felt  oppressed;  she  hardly  knew  why. 


128  PLAIN    SEWING. 

"Does  the  work  please  you?"  she  ventured  to  ask. 

"I  don't  think  these  are  as  well  made  as  the 
others/'  said  Mrs.  Lander. 

"  I  thought  they  were  better  made/'  returned  the 
woman. 

"  Oh,  no.  The  stitching  on  the  bosoms,  collars, 
and  wristbands  isn't  nearly  so  well  done." 

Mrs.  Walton  knew  better  than  this;  but  she  did 
not  feel  in  any  humour  to  contend  for  the  truth. 
Mrs.  Lander  took  up  the  shirts  again,  and  made 
another  examination. 

"What  is  the  price  of  them?"  she  asked. 

"  Seventy-five  cents." 

"Apiece?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Seventy-five  cents  apiece !" 

"  I  have  never  received  less  than  that,  and  some 
for  whom  I  sew  always  pay  me  a  dollar." 

"  Seventy  five  cents !  It  is  an  imposition.  I  know 
plenty  of  poor  women  who  would  have  been  glad  of 
these  shirts  at  half  the  price — yes,  or  at  a  third  of 
the  price  either.  Seventy-five  cents,  indeed  !  Oh,  no 
— I  will  never  pay  a  price  like  that.  I  can  go 
to  any  professed  shirt-maker  in  the  city,  and  get 
them  made  for  seventy-five  cents  or  a  dollar." 

"  I  know  you  can,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Walton, 
stung  into  self-possession  by  this  unexpected  lan~ 
guage.  "  But  why  should  I  receive  less  if  my  work 
is  as  well  done  ?" 


PLAIN    SEWING.  129 


"  A  pretty  question,  indeed !"  retorted  Mrs.  Lander, 
thrown  off  her  guard.  "  A  pretty  question  for  you 
to  ask  of  me !  Oh,  yes !  You  can  get  such  prices  if 
you  can,  but  I  never  pay  them  to  people  like  you. 
When  I  pay  seventy-five  cents  or  a  dollar  apiece  for 
shirts,  I  go  to  regular  shirt-makers.  But  this  is 
what  we  generally  get  for  trying  to  encourage  the 
poor.  Mrs.  Brandon  said  that  you  were  in  needy 
circumstances,  and  that  it  would  be  a  charity  to  give 
you  work.  But  this  is  the  way  it  generally  turns  out." 

"  What  are  you  willing  to  pay  ?"  asked  the  poor 
woman,  choking  down  her  feelings. 

"  I  have  had  shirts  as  well  made  as  these  for  forty 
cents  many  and  many  a  time.  There  is  a  poor 
woman  down  in  Southwark,  who  sews  beautifully, 
who  would  have  caught  at  the  job.  She  works  foi 
the  shops,  and  does  not  get  over  twenty-five  cents 
for  fine  shirts.  But  as  Mrs.  Brandon  said  you  were 
suffering  for  work,  I  thought  I  would  throw  some 
thing  in  your  way.  Forty  cents  is  an  abundance; 
but  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  under  the  circum 
stances,  to  make  it  fifty,  and  that  is  all  I  will  give. 
So  here  is  your  money — three  dollars." 

And  Mrs.  Lander  took  out  her  purse,  and  counted 
out  six  half  dollars  upon  the  table.  Only  for  a  few 
moments  did  the  poor  woman  hesitate.  Bread  she 
must  have  for  her  children;  and  if  her  clothes  were 
not  taken  out  of  pawn  on  that  day,  they  would  be 
lost.  Slowly  did  she  take  up  the  money  while  wordb 


130  PLAIN    SEWING. 


of  stinging  rebuke  were  on  her  tongue.  But  she 
forced  herself  to  keep  silence;  and  even  departed, 
bearing  the  wrong  that  had  been  laid  upon  her  with 
out  uttering  a  word. 

"Did  you  get  my  shoes  as  you  promised,  mother?" 
eagerly  inquired  her  little  boy,  as  she  came  in,  on 
returning  from  the  house  of  Mrs.  Lander. 

"  No,  dear,"  replied  the  heart-full  mother,  in  a 
subdued  voice.  "  I  didn't  get  as  much  money  as 
I  expected." 

"When  will  you  buy  them,  mother?"  asked  the 
child  as  tears  filled  his  eyes.  "I  can't  go  to  school 
in  this  way."  And  he  looked  down  at  his  bare  feet. 

"I  know  you  can't,  Harry;  and  I  will  try  and 
get  them  for  you  in  a  few  days." 

The  child  said  no  more,  but  shrunk  away  with 
his  little  heart  so  full  of  disappointment,  that  he 
could  not  keep  the  tears  from  gushing  over  his  face. 
The  mother's  heart  was  quite  as  full.  Little  Harry 
sat  down  in  a  corner  to  weep  in  silence,  and  Mrs. 
Walton  took  her  sewing  into  her  hands;  but  the 
tears  so  blinded  her  eyes,  that  she  could  not  see 
where  to  direct  the  needle.  Before  she  had  re 
covered  herself,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  which 
wa?  opened  immediately  afterwards  by  a  lady,  who 
came  into  the  room  where  the  poor  widow  sat  with 
her  little  family  around  her. 

More  than  an  hour  had  passed  since  the  un 
pleasant  interview  with  the  poor  widow,  and  Mrs. 


PLAIN   SEWING.  131 

Lander  had  not  yet  recovered  her  equanimity  of 
mind  nor  lost  the  feelings  of  indignation  which  the 
attempt  to  impose  upon  her  by  an  exorbitant 
charge  had  occasioned,  when  she  was  favoured  with 
a  visit  from  Mrs.  Brandon,  who  said  familiarly,  and 
with  a  smile,  as  she  entered — 

"  Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Lander  ?  I  have  just 
corrected  a  mistake  you  made  a  little  while  ago." 

"Indeed!  what  is  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Lander, 
looking  a  little  surprised. 

"  You  only  gave  poor  Mrs.  Walton  fifty  cents  apiece 
for  the  half  dozen  of  shirts  she  made  for  you,  when 
the  lowest  price  is  seventy-five  cents.  I  always  pay 
a  dollar  for  Mr.  Brandon's.  The -difference  is  a  very 
important  one  to  her — no  less  than  a  dollar  and  a 
half.  I  found  her  in  much  trouble  about  it,  and 
her  little  boy  crying  with  disappointment  at  not 
getting  a  pair  of  shoes  his  mother  had  promised  him 
as  soon  as  she  got  the  money  for  the  shirts.  He 
has  been  from  school  for  want  of  shoes  for  more  than 
a  week.  So  I  took  out  my  purse  and  gave  Mrs. 
"Walton  the  dollar  and  a  half  to  make  up  the  sum 
she  had  earned,  and  told  her  I  would  see  you  about 
it.  I  acted  right,  did  I  not  ?  Of  course,  it  was  a 
mistake  on  your  part  1" 

Mrs.  lender  was  never  more  completely  out-gene- 
ralled  in  her  life.  The  lady  who  had  corrected  her 
error  was  one  in  whose  good  opinion  she  had  every 
reason  for  desiring  to  stand  high.  She  could  grind 


132  PLAIN    SEWING. 

the  face  of  the  poor  without  pity  or  shame,  but  for 
the  world  she  would  not  be  thought  mean  by  Mrs. 
Brandon. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  indeed,"  she 
said  with  a  bland  smile.  "  It  was  altogether  a  mis 
take  on  my  part,  and  I  blame  the  woman  exceedingly 
for  not  having  mentioned  it  at  the  time.  Heaven 
knows  I  am  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  grind 
the  faces  of  the  poor !  Yes,  the  very  last  person.  Here 
is  the  money  you  paid  for  me,  and  I  must  repeat 
my  thanks  for  your  prompt  correction  of  the  error. 
But  I  cannot  help  feeling  vexed  at  the  woman/' 

"  We  must  make  many  allowances  for  the  poor, 
Mrs.  Lander.  They  often  bear  a  great  deal  of  wrong 
without  a  word  of  complaint.  Some  people  take 
advantage  of  their  need,  and,  because  they  are  poor, 
make  them  work  for  the  merest  pittance  in  the 
world.  I  know  some  persons,  and  they  well  off  in 
the  world,  who  always  employ  the  poorest  class 
of  people,  and  this  under  the  pretence  of  favouring 
them,  but,  in  reality,  that  they  may  get  their  work 
done  at  a  cheaper  rate  than  it  can  be  made  by  people 
who  expect  to  derive  from  their  labour  a  comfortable 
support." 

Mrs.  Lander  was  stung  to  the  quick  by  these 
words;  but  she  dared  not  show  the  least  sign  of 
teeling. 

"  Surely  no  one  professing  to  be  a  Christian  can 
do  so/;  said  she. 


PLAIN    SEWING.  133 

"  Yes,  people  professing  to  be  Christians  do  these 
things/'  was  replied;  "but  of  course  their  profes 
sion  needs  a  better  practice  to  prove  it  of  any  worth." 

When  her  visitor  retired,  after  having  expressed 
her  opinion  on  the  subject  under  consideration  still 
more  unequivocally,  Mrs.  Lander  did  not  feel  very 
comfortable,  nor  was  her  good  opinion  of  herself 
quite  so  firm  as  it  had  been  earlier  in  the  day.  But 
she  took  good  care,  in  the  future,  not  to  give  any 
more  work  to  Mrs.  Walton,  and  was  exceedingly 
particular  afterwards,  in  employing  poor  people,  to 
know  whether  they  sewed  for  Mrs.  Brandon.  There 
are  a  good  many  people  in  the  world  who  encourage 
the  poor  on  Mrs.  Lander's  principle. 


it 


JESSIE  HAMPTON. 


"  WHAT  are  you  doing  here,  miss  ?" 

The  young  girl  thus  addressed  was  sitting  by  a 
centre-table,  upon  which  stood  a  lamp,  in  a  hand 
somely  furnished  drawing-room.  She  laid  aside  the 
book  she  was  reading,  and,  without  making  any  reply, 
rose  up  quickly  and  retired.  Two  or  three  persons, 
members  of  the  family,  were  present.  All  observed 
the  effect  of  Mrs.  Freeman's  words,  yet  no  one  had 
heard  what  was  said;  nor  would  they  have  been 
aware  that  more  than  a  request  for  some  service  had 
been  made,  but  for  the  lady's  remark  as  the  girl  left 
the  room. 

"  I  might  as  well  begin  at  once,  and  let  Jessie 
know  her  place.'7 

"What  did  you  say  to  her,  ma?"  asked  a  young 
lady  who  sat  swinging  herself  in  a  large  rocking- 
chair. 

"  I  simply  asked  her  what  she  was  doing  here." 

"  What  did  she  answer?" 

"  Nothing.  The  way  in  which  I  put  the  ques 
tion  fully  explained  my  meaning.  I  am  sorry  that 
there  should  have  arisen  a  necessity  for  hurting  her 
134 


JESSIE   HAMPTON.  135 

feelings;  but  if  the  girl  doesn't  know  her  place,  she 
must  be  told  where  it  is." 

"  I  don't  see  that  she  was  doing  any  great  harm/7 
remarked  an  old  gentleman  who  sat  in  front  of  the 
grate. 

"  She  was  not  in  her  place,  brother/'  said  Mrs. 
Freeman,  with  an  air  of  dignity.  "  We  employ  her 
as  a  teacher  in  the  family,  not  as  a  companion.  Her 
own  good  sense  should  have  taught  her  this." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  us  make  an  equal  of  Jessie 
Hampton,  would  you,  uncle  Edward  ?"  inquired  the 
young  lady  who  sat  in  the  rocking-chair. 

"You  cannot  make  her  your  equal,  Fanny,  in 
point  of  worldly  blessings,  for,  in  this  matter,  Pro 
vidence  has  dealt  more  hardly  with  her  than  with 
you.  As  to  companionship,  I  do  not  see  that  sho 
is  less  worthy  now  than  she  was  a  year  ago." 

"  You  talk  strangely,  Edward/'  said  Mrs.  Free 
man,  in  a  tone  of  dissent. 
"  In  what  way,  sister?" 

"  There  has  been  a  very  great  change  in  a  year. 
Jessie's  family  no  longer  moves  in  our  circle." 

"  True ;  but  is  Jessie  any  the  less  worthy  to  hit  in 
your  parlour  than  she  was  then?" 

"  /  think  so,  and  that  must  decide  the  matter/' 
returned  Mrs.  Freeman,  evincing  some  temper. 

The  old  gentleman  said  no  more;  but  Fanny  re 
marked — "  I  was  not  in  favour  of  taking  Jessie,  for 
I  knew  how  it  would  be;  but  Mrs.  Carlton  reccnj- 


136  JESSIE    HAMPTON. 


mended  her  so  highly,  and  said  so  much  in  he? 
favour,  that  no  room  was  left  for  a  refusal.  As  for 
Jessie  herself,  I  have  no  particular  objection  to  her; 
but  the  fact  of  her  having  once  moved  in  the  circle 
we  are  in  is  against  her;  for  it  leaves  room  for  her 
to  step  beyond  her  place,  as  she  has  already  done, 
and  puts  upon  us  the  unpleasant  necessity  of  remind 
ing  her  of  her  error." 

"  It  don't  seem  to  me,"  remarked  Mr.  Freeman, 
who  had  till  now  said  nothing,  "  that  Miss  Hamp 
ton  was  doing  any  thing  worthy  of  reproof.  She  has 
been  well  raised,  we  know;  is  an  educated,  refined, 
and  intelligent  girl,  and,  therefore,  has  nothing  about 
her  to  create  repugnance  or  to  make  her  presence 
disagreeable.  It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  if  we 
looked  more  to  what  persons  are,  than  to  things 
merely  external." 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  in  that  way,"  said 
Mrs.  Freeman.  "  But  Miss  Hampton  is  governess 
in  our  family,  and  it  is  only  right  that  she  should 
hold  to  us  that  relation  and  keep  her  place.  What 
she  has  been,  or  what  she  is,  beyond  the  fact  of  her 
present  position  here,  is  nothing  to  us." 

Mr.  Freeman  knew  from  experience,  that  no  par 
ticular  good  would  grow  out  of  a  prolonged  argument 
on  this  subject,  and  so  said  nothing  further,  although 
he  could  not  force  from  his  mind  the  image  of  the 
young  girl  as  she  rose  up  hastily  and  left  the  room, 
nor  help  thinking  how  sad  a  change  it  would  be  for 


JESSIE   HAMPTON.  137 

one  of  his  own  children,  if  reduced  suddenly  to  her 
condition. 

A  good  deal  more  was  said  by  Mrs.  Freeman,  who 
did  not  feel  very  comfortable,  although  she  fully 
justified  herself  for  what  she  had  done. 

The  young  girl,  who  had  been  reminded  so  harshly 
of  the  error  into  which  she  had  fallen,  went  quickly 
up  into  her  cold  chamber,  jmd  there,  with  a  burning 
cheek,  sat  down  to  think  as  calmly  as  her  disturbed 
feelings  would  permit.  The  weakness  of  tears  she 
did  not  indulge;  self-respect,  rather  than  pride,  sus 
tained  her.  Had  she  acted  from  the  first  impulse, 
she  would  have  left  the  house  immediately,  never 
again  to  re-enter  it;  but  reason  soon  told  her  that, 
however  strong  her  impulses  might  be,  duties  and 
considerations  far  beyond  mere  feeling  must  come 
in  to  restrain  them. 

"  Whatever  I  have  been,"  she  said  to  herself,  as 
bhe  sat  and  reflected,  "  I  am  now  simply  a  governess, 
and  must  steadily  bear  that  in  mind.  In  this  house 
I  am  to  receive  no  more  consideration  than  a  mere 
stranger.  Have  I  a  right  to  complain  of  this  ?  Have 
I  cause  to  be  offended  at  Mrs.  Freeman  for  remind 
ing  me  of  the  fact?  Her  reproof  was  unkindly 
given ;  but  false  pride  has  in  it  no  gentleness,  no 
regard  for  another's  feelings.  Ah  me  !  this  is  one 
?nore  lesson  of  the  many  I  have  to  learn ;  but  let 
me  bear  up  with  a  brave  heart.  There  is  One  who 
knows  my  path,  and  who  will  see  that  nothing  therein 
12* 


138  JESSIE   HAMPTON. 


need  cause  my  feet  to  stumble.  From  this  moment 
I  will  think  of  all  here  us  strangers.  I  will  faith 
fully  do  what  I  have  engaged  to  do,  and  expect  there 
for  only  the  compensation  agreed  upon  when  I  came. 
Have  I  a  right  to  expect  more  ?" 

The  bright  colour  faded  gradually  from  the  flushed 
cheeks  of  Jessie  Hampton,  and  with  a  calm,  yet 
pensive  face,  she  arose  and  went  down  into  the  room 
which  had  been  set  apart  for  her  use  when  giving 
instruction  to  the  children.  It  was  warmed  and 
lighted,  and  had  in  it  a  small  library.  Here  she 
sat  alone,  reading  and  thinking,  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  and  then  retired  to  her  chamber  for  the 
night. 

As  was  intimated  in  the  conversation  that  arose 
upon  her  leaving  the  drawing-room,  Jessie  Hamp 
ton's  circumstances  had  suffered,  in  a  very  short 
period,  a  great  change.  A  year  before  she  was  the 
equal  and  companion  of  Fanny  Freeman,  and  more 
beloved  and  respected  by  those  who  knew  her  than 
Fanny  was  or  ever  could  be ;  but  unexpected  reverses 
came.  The  relative  who  had  been  to  her  as  a  father 
for  many  years  was  suddenly  deprived  of  all  his 
worldly  goods,  and  reduced  so  low  as  to  be  in  want 
of  the  comforts  of  life.  So  soon  as  Jessie  saw  this, 
she  saw  plainly  her  duty. 

"  I  cannot  burden  my  uncle,"  said  she  resolutely 
to  herself.  "  He  has  enough,  and  more  than  enough, 
to  bear  up  under,  without  the  addition  of  my 


JESSIE   HAMPTON.  139 

weight."  Thoughtfully  she  looked  around  her;  but 
still  in  doubt  what  to  do,  she  called  upon  a  lady 
named  Mrs.  Carlton,  who  was  among  the  few  whose 
manner  towards  her  had  not  changed  with  altered 
fortune,  and  frankly  opened  to  her  what  was  in  her 
mind. 

"  What  does  your  uncle  say  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Carl- 
ton.  "  Does  he  approve  the  step  ?" 

"  He  knows  nothing  of  my  purpose,"  returned 
Jessie. 

"Then  had  you  not  better  consult  him?" 

"  He  will  not  hear  of  it,  I  am  certain;  but,  for  all 
that,  I  am  resolved  to  do  as  I  propose.  He  has  lost 
his  property,  and  is  now  in  great  trouble.  He  is, 
in  fact,  struggling  hard  to  keep  his  head  above 
water :  my  weight  might  sink  him.  But,  even  if 
there  were  no  danger  of  this,  so  long  as  I  am  able 
to  sustain  myself,  I  will  not  cling  to  him  while  he  is 
tossed  on  the  waves  of  adversity." 

"  I  cannot  but  highly  approve  your  decision," 
said  Mrs.  Carlton,  her  heart  warm  with  admiration 
for  the  right-minded  girl.  "The  fact  that  your 
uncle  has  been  compelled  to  give  up  his  elegant 
house,  and  retire  with  you  to  a  boarding-house, 
shows  the  extremity  to  which  he  has  been  reduced. 
I  understand  that  his  fine  business  is  entirely  broken 
up,  and  that,  burdened  with  debts,  he  has  commenced 
the  world  again,  a  few  hundred  dollars  all  his  capita1 
in  trade,  resolved,  if  health  and  a  sound  mind  be 


140  JESSIE   HAMPTON. 

continued  to  him,  to  rise  above  all  his  present  diffi 
culties." 

"And  shall  I,"  replied  Jessie,  asit  an  idle  wit 
ness  of  the  honourable  struggle,  content  to  burden 
him  with  my  support  ?  No !  Were  I  of  such  a 
spirit,  I  would  be  unworthy  the  relation  I  bear 
him.  Much  rather  would  I  aid  him,  were  it  in  my 
power,  by  any  sacrifice." 

"  If  I  understand  you  aright,"  said  Mrs.  Carlton, 
after  thinking  for  a  few  moments,  ayou  would  prefer 
a  situation  as  governess  in  a  private  family/' 

"Yes;  that  would  suit  me  best." 

"  How  would  you  like  to  take  charge  of  Mrs. 
Freeman's  younger  children?  She  mentioned  to 
me,  only  yesterday,  her  wish  to  obtain  a  suitable 
instructor  for  them,  and  said  she  was  willing  to  pay 
a  liberal  salary  to  a  person  who  gave  entire  satisfac 
tion." 

Jessie's  face  became  thoughtful. 

"  Mrs.  Freeman  is  not  the  most  agreeable  person 
to  be  found,  I  know,  Jessie,"  said  her  friend;  "but 
the  step  you  propose  involves  sacrifices  from  the 
beginning." 

"  It  does,  I  know ;  and  I  must  not  forget  this. 
Had  I  a  choice,  I  certainly  should  not  select  the 
family  of  Mrs.  Freeman  as  the  one  in  which  to 
begin  the  new  life  I  am  about  entering  upon.  She 
and  Fanny  are  among  the  few  who  have  ceased  to 
notice  me,  except  with  great  coldness,  gince  my 


JESSIE    HAMPTON.  141 


uncle's  misfortunes.  But  I  will  not  think  of  this 
If  they  will  take  me,  I  will  go  even  into  their 
house,  and  assume  the  humble  duties  of  a  governess." 

Mrs.  Carlton  immediately  called  upon  Mrs.  Free 
man,  and  mentioned  Jessie.  Some  objection  was 
made  on  the  score  of  her  being  an  old  acquaintance, 
who  would  expect  more  notice  than  one  in  her  po 
sition  was  entitled  to  receive.  This,  however,  was 
overruled  by  Mrs.  Carlton,  and,  after  an  interview 
with  Jessie,  an  engagement  was  entered  into  for  a 
year,  at  a  salary  of  four  hundred  dollars. 

When  Jessie  mentioned  the  subject  to  her  uncle. 
Mr.  Hartman,  he  became  a  good  deal  excited,  and 
said  that  she  should  do  no  such  thing.  But  Jessie 
remained  firm,  and  her  uncle  was  at  last  compelled, 
though  with  great  reluctance,  to  consent  to  what  she 
proposed,  regarding  it  only  as  a  temporary  measure. 

The  first  day's  experience  of  Jessie  under  the 
roof  of  Mrs.  Freeman  is  known  to  the  reader.  It 
was  a  painful  experience,  but  she  bore  it  in  the  right 
spirit.  After  that,  she  was  careful  to  confine  her 
self  to  the  part  of  the  house  assigned  her  as  a  ser 
vant  and  inferior,  and  never  ventured  upon  the  least 
familiarity  with  any  one.  Her  duty  to  the  children 
who  were  committed  to  her  charge  was  faithfully 
performed,  and  she  received,  regularly,  her  wages, 
according  to  contract,  and  there  the  relation  between 
her  and  this  family  ceased.  Day  after  day,  week 
after  week,  and  month  after  month,  did  Jessie 


142  JESSIE   HAMPTON. 


Hampton,  unchcered  by  an  approving  smile  or 
friendly  word,  discharge  her  duties.  But  she  had 
within,  to  sustain  her,  a  consciousness  that  she  was 
doing  right,  and  a  firm  trust  in  an  all-wise  and  mer 
ciful  Providence. 

Mrs.  Carlton  remained  her  steady  friend,  and 
Jessie  spent  an  evening  at  her  house  almost  every 
week,  and  frequently  met  there  many  of  her  old 
acquaintances.  Of  her  treatment  in  the  house  of 
Mrs.  Freeman  she  never  spoke,  and  when  questioned 
on  the  subject  avoided  giving  a  direct  answer. 

Mr.  Hartman's  struggle  proved  to  be  a  hard  one. 
Harassed  by  claims  that  he  could  not  pay  off  at 
once,  his  credit  almost  entirely  gone,  and  the  capital 
upon  which  he  was  doing  business  limited  to  a  few 
hundred  dollars,  he  found  it  almost  impossible  to 
make  any  headway.  In  a  year  from  the  time  Jessie 
had  relieved  him  from  the  burden  of  her  support, 
so  far  from  being  encouraged  by  the  result  of  his 
efforts,  he  felt  like  abandoning  all  as  hopeless. 
There  are  always  those  who  are  ready  to  give  small 
credits  to  a  man  whom  they  believe  to  be  honest, 
even  though  once  unfortunate  in  business ;  but  for 
such  favours  Mr.  Hartman  could  not  have  kept  uf 
thus  far.  Now  the*  difficulty  was  to  pay  the  few 
notes  given  as  they  matured. 

A  note  of  five  hundred  dollars  was  to  fall  due  on 
the  next  day,  and  Mr.  Hartman  found  himself  with 
but  a  hundred  dollars  to  meet  it.  The  firm  from 


JESSIE   HAMPTON.  143 

which  he  had  bought  the  goods  for  which  the  note 
was  given  had  trusted  him  when  others  refused  credit 
to  the  amount  of  a  single  dollar,  and  had  it  in  their 
power  to  forward  his  interests  very  greatly  if  he  was 
punctual  in  his  payments.  It  was  the  first  bill  of 
goods  they  had  sold  him,  and  Hartman  could  not  go 
to  them  for  assistance  in  lifting  the  note,  for  that 
would  effectually  cut  off  all  hope  of  further  credit, 
He  could  not  borrow,  for  there  was  no  one  to  lend 
him  money.  There  was  a  time  when  he  could 
have  borrowed  thousands  on  his  word ;  but  now 
he  knew  that  it  would  be  folly  to  ask  for  even  hun 
dreds. 

In  a  state  of  deep  discouragement,  he  left  his 
store  in  the  evening  and  went  home.  After  tea, 
while  sitting  alone,  Jessie,  who  came  to  see  him 
often,  tapped  at  his  door. 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?"  she  asked,  with  much  con 
cern,  as  soon  as  the  smile  with  which  he  greeted 
her  faded  from  his  face,  and  she  saw  its  drooping 
expression. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  he  replied,  trying  to  arouse  himself 
and  appear  cheerful ;  but  the  effort  was  in  vain. 

"  Indeed,  uncle,  you  are  not  well/'  remarked 
Jessie,  breaking  in  upon  a  longer  period  of  silent 
abstraction  into  which  Mr.  Hartman  had  fallen,  after 
in  vain  trying  to  converse  cheerfully  with  his  niece. 
"  I  am  well  enough  in  body,  Jessie ;  but  my  mind 
is  a  little  anxious  just  now/'  he  replied. 


144  JESSIE   HAMPTON. 


"  Isn't  your  business  coming  out  as  well  as  you 
expected  ?"  inquired  the  affectionate  girl. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  it  is  not,"  returned  Mr. 
Hartman.  "  In  fact,  I  see  but  little  hope  of  suc 
ceeding.  I  have  no  capital,  and  the  little  credit  I 
possess  is  likely  to  be  destroyed  through  my  inability 
to  sustain  it.  I  certainly  did  anticipate  a  better 
reward  for  my  efforts,  and  am  the  more  disappointed 
at  this  result.  To  think  that,  for  the  want  of  three 
or  four  hundred  dollars,  the  struggle  of  a  whole 
year  must  prove  in  vain  !  As  yet,  even  that  small 
sum  I  cannot  command." 

The  face  of  Jessie  flushed  instantly,  as  her  uncle 
uttered  the  last  two  sentences. 

"  And  will  so  small  an  amount  as  three  or  four 
hundred  dollars  save  you  from  what  you  fear  ?"  she 
asked,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  Yes,  even  so  small  an  amount  as  that.  But  the  sum 
might  as  well  be  thousands.  I  cannot  command  it." 

"  You  can,  uncle  1"  replied  Jessie,  with  a  glow 
of  exultation  on  her  cheek,  and  a  spirit  of  joy  in 
her  voice.  "  /  have  the  money.  Oh  !  it  is  the 
happiest  hour  of  my  life  !" 

And  sinking  forward,  sh?  laid  her  now  weeping 
face  upon  the  breast  of  her  uncle.  Her  tears  were 
the  out-gushing  waters  of  gladness. 

"  You  have  the  money,  child  ?"  said  Mr.  Hart 
man,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments.  "  Where 
did  you  get  it  ?" 


JESSIE    HAMPTON.  145 

"  I  have  had  no  need  to  spend  my  salary." 
'  Your  salary  !     Have  you  saved  it  all  ?" 
1  Every  dollar.     I  had  clothing  sufficient,   and 
there  was  no  other  want  to  take  it  from  me.     Dear 
uncle,  how  happy  it  makes  me  to  think  that  I  have 
it  in  my  power  to  aid  you !     Would  that  the  sum 
was  tens  of  thousands  !" 

Mr.  Hartman,  as  soon  as  the  first  surprise  was 
over,  said,  with  evident  emotion — 

"Jessie,  I  cannot  express  how  much  this  incident 
has  affected  me.  But,  deeply  grateful  to  you  as  I 
feel  for  such  an  evidence  of  your  love,  I  must  push 
back  the  hand  that  would  force  this  aid  upon  me. 
I  will  not  be  unjust  to  you.  I  will  not  take  your 
hard  earnings  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  them." 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  face  of  Jessie,  and  her 
voice  was  touched  with  something  like  grief  as  she 
replied — 

"  How  can  you  speak  to  me  thus,  uncle  ?  How 
can  you  push  back  my  hand  when,  in  love,  it  seek? 
to  smooth  the  pillow  upon  which  your  troubled  head 
is  resting  ?  Would  you  deny  me  a  higher  gratification 
than  I  have  ever  known  ?  No — no — you  cannot !" 
Mr.  Hartman  was  bewildered.  He  felt  as  if  it 
would  be  a  kind  of  sacrilege  to  take  the  money  of 
his  niece,  yet  how  could  he  positively  refuse  to  do 
so  ?  Apart  from  the  necessity  of  his  circumstances, 
there  was  the  cruelty  of  doing  violence  to  the  gene^ 
rous  love  that  had  so  freely  tendered  relief.  In 
13 


M6  JESSIE    HAMPTON. 


the  end,  all  objections  had  to  yield,  and  Mr.  Hart- 
man  was  saved  from  a  second  disaster,  which  would 
have  entirely  prostrated  him,  by  the  money  that 
Jessie  had  earned  and  saved. 

A  short  time  after  the  occurrence  of  this  circum 
stance,  the  Freemans  gave  a  large  party.  Mrs. 
Carlton,  who  was  present,  said  to  Mrs.  Freeman,  an 
hour  after  the  company  had  assembled — 

"  Where  is  Miss  Hampton  ?  I've  been  looking 
for  her  all  the  evening.  Isn't  she  well  ?" 

"What  Miss  Hampton  do  you  mean?"  asked 
Mrs.  Freeman,  drawing  herself  up  with  an  air  cold 
and  dignified. 

"  Miss  Jessie  Hampton/'  replied  Mrs.  Carlton. 
"  Sure  enough  !"  said  a  young  man,  who  was 
sitting  by,  and  who  had  been  attentive  to  Fanny 
Freeman;  "where  is  Miss  Hampton?  I  haven't 
seen  her  for  a  long  time.  What  can  have  become 
of  her  ?  Is  she  dead,  or  is  she  married  ?" 

"  Her  uncle,  I  suppose  you  know,  failed  in  busi 
ness,  and  has  become  poor,"  replied  Mrs.  Carlton. 

"  True.  I  was  perfectly  aware  of  that,  but  didn't 
reflect  that  poverty  was  a  social  crime.  And  is  it 
possible  that  so  lovely  a  girl  as  Jessie  Hampton  has 
been  excluded  from  the  circle  she  so  graced  with 
her  presence,  because  of  this  change  in  her  uncle's 
sircumstances  ?" 

"It  is  true  to  a  very  great  extent,  Mr.  Edgar/'' 
returned  Mrs.  Carlton,  "  though  I  am  glad  to  say 


JESSIE    HAMPTON.  147 


that  there  are  a  few  who  can  appreciate  the  real 
gold  of  her  character,  and  who  love  her  as  truly 
and  esteem  her  as  highly  as  ever  they  did." 

"  A  worthy  few,  and  if  I  were  only  so  fortunate 
as  to  fall  in  company  with  her,  I  would  be  of  the 
number.  Is  she  here  to-night  ?" 

The  young  man  looked  at  Mrs.  Freeman,  and  be 
came  aware,  from  the  expression  of  her  face,  that 
the  subject  was  disagreeable  to  her.  With  easy 
politeness  he  changed  the  theme  of  conversation  • 
but  as  soon  as  opportunity  offered,  sought  out  Mrs. 
Carlton,  and  asked  a  question  or  two  more  about 
Jessie. 

"  What  has  become  of  Miss  Hampton  ?  I  should 
really  like  to  know,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Carlton  could  only  reply  direct,  and  she 
answered, 

"  She  is  living  in  this  family  in  the  capacity  of 
governess." 

"Indeed  !  I  have  been  visiting  here,  off  and  on, 
for  a  twelvemonth,  but  have  neither  seen  her  nor 
heard  her  name  mentioned.  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.  I  procured  her  the  situation  over  a  year 
ago,  and  see  her  almost  every  week." 

"  This  being  the  case,  and  it  also  being  plain  that 
her  worth  is  not  appreciated  here,  our  remarks  a 
little  while  ago  could  not  have  been  very  pleasant 
to  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Freeman." 

"  I  presume  not,"  was  returned. 


148  JESSIE    HAMPTON. 


The  young  man  became  thoughtful,  and,  in  a  lit 
tle  while,  withdrew  from  the  crowded  rooms  and 
left  the  house.  He  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  mer 
chant,  and  had  recently  come  into  his  father's  busi 
ness  as  a  partner.  It  was  to  the  firm  of  Edgar  & 
Son  that  the  note  of  Mr.  Hartman,  which  Jessie 
had  aided  him  to  lift,  had  been  due. 

On  the  day  succeeding  the  party  at  Mrs.  Free 
man's,  Mr.  Hartnian  came  in  to  purchase  some 
goods,  and;  after  selecting  them,  asked  if  he  could 
have  the  usual  credit. 

"Certainly,"  replied  old  Mr.  Edgar;  "and  to 
double  the  amount  of  the  bill." 

Hartinan  thanked  the  merchant,  and  retired. 

"  You  know  the  five  hundred  dollar  note  that  he 
paid  last  week?"  said  Mr.  Edgar,  speaking  to  his 
son,  and  alluding  to  Hartman,  who  had  just  left. 

"  I  do." 

"  Well,  I  heard  something  about  that  note  this 
morning  that  really  touched  my  feelings.  Hart- 
man  spoke  of  the  circumstances  to  a  friend,  and 
that  friend — betraying,  I  think,  the  confidence  re 
posed  in  him — related  it  to  me,  not  knowing  that  we 
were  the  parties  to  which  the  note  had  been  paid. 
On  that  note  he  came  near  failing  again." 

"  Indeed !   And  yet  you  have  just  sold  him  freely !" 

"  I  have.  But  such  are  my  feelings  that  I  would 
risk  five  thousand  dollars  to  keep  hinrup.  I  kno^i 
him  to  be  a  man  of  strict  honesty." 


JESSIE   HAMPTON.  149 


"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,"  replied  the  son. 

t(  You  remember  his  niece,  I  suppose  ?"  said  old 
Mr.  Edgar. 

"  Oh,  very  well." 

"When  Mr.  Hartman's  circumstances  became 
reduced,  she,  of  her  own  free  choice,  relieved  him  of 
the  burden  of  her  support,  and  assumed  the  arduous 
and  toilsome  duties  of  a  governess  in  one  of  our 
wealthy  families,  where  she  has  ever  since  been. 
On  the  evening  before  the  note  of  which  I  spoke 
was  due,  she  called  to  see  her  uncle,  and  found  him 
in  trouble.  For  some  time  he  concealed  the  cause, 
but  so  earnest  was  she  in  her  affectionate  entreaties 
to  know  why  he  was  unhappy,  that  he  told  her  the 
reason.  He  was  again  embarrassed  in  his  business, 
and,  for  want  of  a  few  hundred  dollars,  which  one, 
circumstanced  as  he  was,  could  not  borrow,  was  in 
danger  of  being  again  broken  up.  To  his  astonish 
ment,  Jessie  announced  the  fact  that  she  had  the 
sum  he  wanted,  saved  from  her  salary  as  governess. 
He  at  first  refused  to  take  it,  but  she  would  listen 
to  no  denial." 

"  Noble  girl !"  exclaimed  the  young  man. 

"She  must  be  one  in  a  thousand,"  said  Mr. 
Edgar. 

"  She  is  one  in  ten  thousand  !"  replied  the  son, 
enthusiastically.  "  And  yet  worth  like  hers  is  passed 
over  for  the  tinsel  of  wealth.  Do  you  know  in  whose 

family  she  is  governess  ?" 

13* 


150  JESSIE   HAMPTON. 

"  I  do  not." 

"I  can  tell  you.  She  is  in  the  family  of  Mr. 
Freeman." 

"Ah!" 

"  Yes.    You  know  they  gave  a  party  last  night?" 

"I  do." 

"  Miss  Hampton  was  not  present." 

"  As  much  as  might  have  been  inferred." 

"  And  yet  there  was  no  young  lady  in  the  room 
her  equal  in  all  that  goes  to  make  up  the  character 
of  a  lovely  woman." 

"  Well,  my  son,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  "all 
I  have  to  say  is,  that  I  look  upon  this  young  lady 
as  possessing  excellencies  of  character  far  outweigh 
ing  all  the  endowments  of  wealth.  Money !  It 
may  take  to  itself  wings  in  a  day ;  but  virtue  like 
hers  is  as  abiding  as  eternity.  If  your  heart  is  not 
otherwise  interested,  and  you  feel  so  inclined,  win 
her  if  you  can.  Another  like  her  may  never  cross 
your  path.  With  such  a  woman  as  your  wife,  you 
need  not  tremble  at  the  word  adversity." 

The  young  man  did  not  reply.  What  his  thoughts 
were,  his  actions  subsequently  attested. 

After  the  party,  to  the  distant  coldness  with 
whi'jh  Mrs.  Freeman  had  treated  Jessie  since  she 
came  into  her  house,  were  added  certain  signs  of 
dislike,  quickly  perceived  by  the  maiden.  In  ad 
dressing  her,  Mrs.  Freeman  exhibited,  at  times,  a 
superciliousness  that  was  particularly  offensive.  But 


JESSIE    HAMPTON.  151 


Jessie  cheeked  the  indignant  feelings  that  arc-so  in 
her  bosom,  and,  in  conscious  rectitude  of  character, 
went  on  faithfully  discharging  her  duties.  Since 
the  timely  aid  she  had  been  able  to  bring  her  uncle, 
she  had  a  new  motive  for  effort,  and  went  through 
her  daily  task  with  a  more  cheerful  spirit. 

One  day,  about  six  months  after  the  occurrence 
of  the  party  which  has  been  mentioned,  Jessie,  a 
little  to  the  surprise  of  Mrs.  Freeman,  gave  that  lady 
notice  that,  at  a  certain  time  not  far  off,  she  would 
terminate  her  engagement  with  her.  The  only 
reason  she  gave  was,  that  the  necessity  which  took 
her  from  home  no  longer  remained.  At  the  time 
mentioned,  Jessie  left,  although  Mrs.  Freeman, 
urged  by  other  members  of  the  family,  who  could 
better  appreciate  the  young  lady's  worth,  offered  a 
considerable  increase  of  salary  as  an  inducement  tc 
remain. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?"  exclaimed  Fanny,  about 
three  weeks  subsequently,  throwing  open  the  parlour 
door,  where  the  family  had  assembled  just  before 
tea.  "  Jessie  Hampton's  married !" 

"What!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Freeman.   "Married?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sure  enough,"  said  Mr.  Freeman,  "  I 
heard  of  it  a  little  while  before  I  left  my  counting- 
room.  And,  more  surprising  still,  she  is  married 
to  young  Edgar." 

"  Oh,  no !"  responded  Mrs.  Freeman,  incredu 
lously.  "  It's  some  mistake.  Never  !  It  cannot  be." 


152  JESSIE    HAMPTON. 


"  Oh,  but  it  is  a  fact,  mother,"  said  Fanny,  with 
ill-concealed  chagrin.  "Lizzy  Martin  was  her  brides 
maid.  They  were  married  at  Mrs.  Carlton's  this 
morning,  and  the  whole  bridal  party  has  gone  off 
to  Saratoga." 

"He's  got  a  good  wife,"  remarked  the  brother 
of  Mrs.  Freeman,  in  his  quiet  way.  "I  always  liked 
that  young  man,  and  like  him  better  than  ever  now. 
I  knew  he  was  a  fellow  of  good  sense ;  but  he  has 
showed  himself  to  possess  more  of  that  sterling 
material  than  I  thought." 

Mr.  Freeman  also  gave  his  opinion,  and  in  doing 
so,  expressed  himself  pretty  freely  in  regard  to  the 
treatment  Jessie  had  received,  while  in  the  house. 
As  for  his  wife,  when  the  truth  assumed  an  un 
doubted  form,  she  sunk  into  mortified  silence,  and 
Fanny  felt  even  worse  than  her  mother,  and  for 
reasons  that  lay  nearer  her  heart. 

In  a  little  while  the  bride  took  her  old  place  in 
society,  and  many  who,  in  her  seclusion,  passed  her 
coldly,  or  all  unnoticed,  met  her  now  with  smiles 
and  with  warm  congratulations.  Of  all  the  changes 
that  followed  as  a  consequence  of  her  marriage,  there 
was  none  that  filled  her  with  so  much  delight  as  the 
improved  prospects  of  her  uncle,  Mr.  Hartman. 
Her  husband  became  his  fast  friend,  and  sustained 
him  through  every  difficulty.  One  home  held  them 
both.  How  purely  and  brightly  the  stream  of 
Jessie's  happiness  flowed  on,  need  not  be  told 


JESSIE    HAMPTON.  153 


Virtue  and  integrity  of  character  had  met  their  just 
reward.  In  adversity  she  was  not  cast  down,  and 
when  prosperity  again  smiled  she  was  not  unduly 
elated.  In  either  relation  to  society,  she  was  a  dis 
penser  of  blessings  to  those  she  loved. 

It  is  a  fact  worthy  of  notice,  that  those  who  looked 
down  upon  Jessie,  and  passed  her  unnoticed  while 
she  was  only  a  governess,  now  referred  to  the  nobk-., 
self-sacrificing  spirit  that  prompted  her  to  act  as  she 
had  done,  and  spoke  of  her  conduct  with  admiration. 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT 


"  JUST  four  weeks  off/'  said  a  little  boy,  striking 
his  hands  together,  "and  papa  will  be  home  !" 

"Yes,  four  weeks  more,  and  we  shall  see  dear 
father.  It  will  be  the  happiest  New  Year's  day  we 
ever  had;  won't  it,  mother?"  said  the  little  boy's 
sister,  a  bright  smile  playing  over  her  face. 

"  I  hope  so/'  replied  the  mother.  "  Father  has 
been  away  so  long,  his  coming  home  would  make 
any  day  in  the  year  a  happy  one." 

"  I  wonder  what  he  will  bring  me  for  a  New  Year's 
present  ?"  said  the  boy. 

"  I  know  what  I'll  get,"  said  the  little  sister. 

"What?" 

"  A  hundred  kisses." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  care  much  for  kisses." 

"  But  I  do ;  and  I'm  sure  of  getting  them." 

"  I  wonder  what  mamma  will  get  ?" 

"  I  know  !"  replied  the  sister,  with  an  arch  smile. 

"What?" 

"  Just  what  I  will."  And  the  little  girl  looked 
at  her  mother,  and  smiled  still  more  archly. 

"  A  hundred  kisses,  you  mean  ?" 

"We'll  see." 
154 


155 


The  mother's  hand  rested  from  her  work,  and 
she  looked  at  her  children  with  a  calm,  yet  happy 
face.  Their  words  had  caused  her  to  realize,  in  ima 
gination,  with  more  than  usual  distinctness,  the 
fact  of  her  husband's  return,  which  he  had  written 
would  be  on  the  first  day  of  the  coming  new  year. 
He  had  been  away  for  many  months,  and  home  had 
hardly  seemed  like  home  during  his  absence. 

"  We  mustn't  think  too  much,  about  it,"  said  the 
mother,  "  or  we  will  get  so  impatient  for  dear  father's 
return  as  to  make  ourselves  unhappy.  I  am  sure 
we  will  all  love  him  better  than  ever  we  did,  when 
he  does  come  home  !" 

"I  am  sure  I  will,"  returned  the  little  girl. 
"  Oh  !  I  think  I  never  loved  him  so  well  in  my  life 
as  I  have  since  he  has  been,  away." 

Thus  talked  the  mother  and  her  children  of  the 
return  of  one  whose  presence  was  so  dear  to  them  all. 

This  brief  conversation  took  place  in  a  farm-house. 
In  the  room  sat,  near  the  fire,  a  man  whose  appear 
ance  was  any  thing  but  pleasant  to  the  eyes.  He 
was  a  labourer,  who  had  been  hired,  some  months 
previously,  by  the  farmer.  He  did  not  seem  to  hear 
what  was  said,  yet  he  was  listening  with  reluctant 
attention.  The  mother  and  her  children  continued 
still  to  talk  of  what  was  uppermost  in  their  minds — 
the  absent  one,  and  his  expected  return — until  the 
man  became  restless,  and  at  last  got  up  and  went 
out. 


156  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 


"I  dor;'t  wonder  Mr.  Foster  went  out  of  the 
room/'  said  the  boy,  as  the  person  alluded  to  shut 
the  door. 

"  Why,  Edward  ?"  asked  his  sister. 

"Can't  you  think,  Maggy?" 

"  No.     What  made  him  go  out  ?" 

"Because  we  said  we  were  so  glad  papa  was 
coming  home  on  New  Year's  day.  I'm  sure  he 
must  have  thought  of  his  home.  They  won't  be  so 
glad  to  see  him  on  New  Year's  day,  as  we  are  to 
see  our  dear,  good  father." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  my  son  ?"  asked  the 
mother. 

"  I'm  sure  they  can't  be  so  glad,"  said  Edward. 
"  I  know  I  wouldn't  be  so  glad  to  see  my  father,  if 
he  was  like  Mr.  Foster.  Doesn't  he  spend  nearly 
all  the  money  he  gets  in  liquor  ?  I've  heard  you 
say  that  his  poor  wife  and  children  hardly  have 
enough  to  eat  or  to  wear,  although  he  gets  very  good 
wages,  and  could  make  them  comfortable  if  he  would. 
No,  I'm  sure  they  can't  love  him  as  we  love  our 
father,  nor  be  as  glad  to  see  him  come  home  as  we 
will  be  to  see  our  father.  And  he  knows  it,  and 
that  made  him  go  out  of  the  room.  He  didn't  like 
to  hear  us  talking." 

The  boy  was  correct  in  his  conclusions.  The  man 
Foster,  of  whom  he  spoke,  did  feel  troubled.  He 
had  children  and  a  wife,  and  he  was  absent  from 
;hem,  and  had  been  absent  for  many  months.  On 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT.  157 

New  Year's  day  he  was  to  go  home;  but  many 
painful  feelings  mingled  with  the  thought  of  seeing 
his  long-neglected  and  much-abused  family.  Since 
he  had  been  away;  he  had  expended  more  than  half 
his  earnings  upon  himself,  and  yet  his  appearance 
was  worse  than  when  he  went  from  home,  for,  in 
exchange  for  his  money,  he  had  received  only  poison. 
It  was  evening.  Without,  the  air  was  cold.  The 
sky  was  clear,  and  the  moon  and  stars  shone  brightly. 
Foster  walked  a  short  distance  from  the  house,  trying 
to  drive  from  his  mind  the  images  that  had  been 
conjured  up  by  the  words  of  the  children  and  their 
mother;  but  he  could  not.  His  own  abused  wife  and 
neglected  little  ones  were  before  him,  in  their  com 
fortless  home,  poorly  clad,  and  pale  and  thin  from 

want  of  healthy  and  sufficient  food.     Did  they  think 

of  him,  and  talk  with  so  much  delight  of  his  return  ? 

Alas  !  no.     He  brought  no  sunshine  to  their  ^cheer 
less  abode. 

"  Wretch !  wretch !"  he  said  to  himself,  striking 

his  hand  hard  against  his  bosom.     "A  curse  to 

them! — a  curse  to  myself!" 

For  an  hour  the  unhappy  man  stayed  out  in  the 

chilly  air ;  but  he  did  not  feel  the  cold.     Then  he 
tered  the  house,  but  did  not  go  into  the  room 

where  the  happy  mother  sat  with  her  children,  but 

to  the  lonely  attic  where  he  slept. 

Twenty  miles  away  lived  the  wife  and  three  children 

of  Foster.     The  oldest  boy  was  eleven  years  of  age; 
14 


158  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 


and   the   youngest   child,    a   little   girl,   just   five. 
Three  small  mounds,  in  a  burying-ground  near  by 
where  the  humble  dwelling  stood,  marked  the  place 
where  as  many  more  slept — more  blessed  than  the 
living.     The  mother  of  these  children  was  a  pale- 
faced  woman,  with  a  bent  form  and  an  aspect  of 
suffering.     She  had  been  long  acquainted  with  sor 
row  and  trouble.     Like  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
others  in  our  land,  she  had  left,  years  before,  the 
pleasant  home  of  her  girlhood,  to  be  the  loving  com 
panion  of  one  on  whose  solemnly  pledged  faith  she 
relied  with  the  most  unwavering  confidence.     And, 
for  a  time,  the  trust  was  not  in  vain.     The  first 
golden  period  of  her  married  life  was  a  happy  time 
indeed  !     None  could  have  been  more  thoughtful  of 
her  comfort,  nor  more  tender  of  her  feelings,  than 
was  her  husband.     But,  alas !  it  was  with  him  as 
with  hundreds  and  thousands  of  others.     Not  once 
did  it  cross  his  mind  that  there  was  danger  to  him 
in  the  pleasant  glass  that  was  daily  taken.     The 
bare  suggestion  he  would  have  repelled  as  an  insult. 
On  the  day  of  his   marriage,  Henry  Foster  re 
ceived  from  the  father  of  his  wife   the  title-deeds 
of  a  snug  little  place  containing  thirty  acres,  which 
was  well  stocked  for  a  small  farmer.      He  had, 
himself,  laid  by  a  few  hundred  dollars.     Thus  he 
had  a  fair  start  in  the  world,  and  a  most  comfortable 
assurance  of  happiness  and  prosperity.     For  several 
years  every  thing  went  on  pleasantly.     The  farm 


159 


was  a  very  garden  spot,  and  had  increased  from 
thirty  to  sixty  acres  by  the  purchase  of  contiguous 
lands.  Then  a  change  became  apparent.  Foster 
took  more  interest  than  formerly  in  what  was  going 
on  in  the  village  near  by.  He  attended  the  various 
political  meetings  held  at  the  "Travellers'  Rest/' 
and  was  a  prominent  man  on  training  and  election 
days.  After  a  while,  his  wife  began  to  look  on  these 
days  with  a  troubled" feeling,  for  they  generally  sent 
him  home  in  a  sad  plight;  and  it  took  nearly  a 
week  for  him  to  get  settled  down  again  to  his  work. 

Thus  the  declension  began,  and  its  progress  was 
too  sadly  apparent  to  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Foster,  even 
before  others,  less  interested  than  herself,  observed 
it.  At  the  end  of  ten  years  from  the  happy  wed 
ding  day,  the  farm,  now  more  like  a  wilderness  than 
a  beautiful  garden,  was  seized  and  sold  for  debt. 
There  were  no  friends  to  step  in  and  go  Foster's 
security,  and  thus  save  his  property  from  sacrifice. 
The  father  of  his  wife  was  dead,  and  his  own  friends, 
even  if  they  had  not  lost  confidence  in  him,  were 
unable  to  render  any  assistance. 

The  rented  farm  upon  which  Foster  went  with  his 
family,  after  being  sold  out,  was  cultivated  with  no 
more  industry  than  his  own  had  been  of  late  years. 
The  man  had  lost  all  ambition,  and  was  yielding 
himself  a  slave  to  the  all-degrading  appetite  for 
drink.  At  first,  his  wife  opposed  a  gentle  remon 
strance;  but  he  became  impatient  and  angry  at  a 


160  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 

word,  and  she  shrank  back  into  herself,  choosing 
rather  to  bear  silently  the  ills  of  poverty  and  degra 
dation,  which  she  saw  were  rapidly  approaching,  than 
to  run  the  risk  of  having  unkindness,  from  one  so 
tenderly  loved,  added  thereto. 

Affliction  came  with  trouble.  Death  took  from 
the  mother's  arms,  in  a  single  year,  three  children. 
The  loss  of  one  was  accompanied  by  a  most  painful, 
yet  deeply  warning  circumstance.  The  father  came 
home  from  the  village  one  evening,  after  having 
taken  a  larger  quantity  of  liquor  than  usual.  While 
the  mother  was  preparing  supper,  he  took  the  babe 
that  lay  fretting  in  the  cradle,  and  hushed  its  fret- 
tings  in  his  arms.  While  holding  it,  overcome  with 
what  he  had  been  drinking,  he  fell  asleep,  and  the 
infant  rolled  upon  the  floor,  striking  its  head  first. 
It  awoke  and  screamed  for  a  minute  or  two,  and 
then  sank  into  a  heavy  slumber,  and  did  not  awake 
until  the  next  morning.  Then  it  was  so  sick,  that  a 
physician  had  to  be  called.  In  a  week  it  died  of 
brain  fever,  occasioned,  the  doctor  said,  by  the  fall. 

For  a  whole  month  not  a  drop  of  liquor  passed 
the  lips  of  the  rebuked  and  penitent  father.  Even 
in  that  short  time  the  desert  places  of  home  began 
to  put  forth  leaves,  and  to  give  promise  of  sweet 
buds  and  blossoms;  and  the  grieving  mother  felt 
that  out  of  this  great  sorrow  was  to  come  forth  joy. 
Alas  !  that  even  a  hope  so  full  of  sadness  should 
be  doomed  to  disappointment.  In  a  moment  of 


161 

temptation  her  husband  fell,  and  fell  into  a  lower 
deep.  Then,  with  more  rapid  steps  the  downward 
road  was  traversed.  Five  more  years  of  sorrow 
sufficed  to  do  the  work  of  suffering  and  degradation. 
There  was  another  seizure  for  debt,  and  the  remnant 
of  stock,  with  nearly  all  their  furniture,  was  taken 
and  sold.  The  rented  farm  had  to  be  given  up; 
with  this,  the  hope  of  gaining  even  sufficient  food 
for  her  little  ones  died  in  the  wretched  mother's 
mind. 

From  a  farmer  on  his  own  account,  Foster  now 
became  a  mere  farm  labqurer ;  with  wages  sufficient, 
however,  to  have  made  things  comfortable  at  home 
under  the  management  of  his  frugal,  industrious 
wife,  if  all  he  earned  had  been  brought  home  to  her. 
But  at  least  one  third,  and  finally  one  half,  and  some 
times  more,  went  to  swell  the  gain  of  the  tavern- 
keeper.  Had  it  not  been  that  a  cow  and  a  few 
chickens  were  left  to  them  at  the  last  seizure  of 
their  things,  pinching  hunger  would  have  entered 
the  comfortless  home  where  the  mother  hid  herself, 
with  her  children. 

At  last  Foster  became  so  good  for  nothing,  that 
he  could  not  obtain  employment  as  a  farm  hand  any 
where  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  was  obliged  to  go 
off  to  a  distance  to  get  work.  This,  to  him,  was  not 
felt  to  be  a  very  great  trial,  for  it  removed  him  from 
the  sight  of  his  half-fed,  half-clothed  children,  and 
dejected,  suffering  wife;  and  he  could,  therefore 
14* 


162  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 


spend  with  more  freedom,  and  fewer  touches  of  com 
punction,  the  greater  portion  of  his  earnings  in  grati 
fying  the  inordinate  cravings  of  his  vitiated  appetite. 

Thus,  in  general,  stood  affairs  at  the  opening  of 
our  story.  Let  us  now  take  a  nearer  and  more  par 
ticular  view.  Let  us  approach,  and  enter  the  cheer 
less  abode  of  the  man  who,  to  feed  an  evil  and  de 
basing  appetite,  could  heartlessly  turn  away  from 
his  faithful  wife  and  dependent  little  ones,  and  leave 
them  to  the  keenest  suffering. 

New  Year's  day,  to  which  the  farmer's  wife  and 
children  were  looking  forward  with  so  much  delight, 
was  but  little  more  than  a  week  off,  and  Mrs.  Foster 
expected  her  husband  home  also.  But  with  what 
different  feelings  did  she  anticipate  his  arrival !  He 
never  brought  a  glad  welcome  with  his  presence; 
although  his  wife,  when  he  was  absent,  always 
looked  for  and  desired  his  return.  He  had  been 
away  over  three  months ;  and  was  earning  twenty 
dollars  a  month.  But,  he  had  only  sent  home 
eighteen  dollars  during  the  whole  time.  This,  we 
need  hardly  say,  was  far  from  enough  to  n|eet  the 
wants  of  his  family.  Had  it  not  been  that  George, 
who  was  but  eleven  years  old,  went  every  day  to  a 
factory  in  the  village  and  worked  from  morning 
•mtil  night,  thus  earning  about  a  dollar  and  a  half 
a  week,  and  that  the  mother  took  in  sewing,  spin 
ning,  washing  and  ironing,  and  whatever  she  could 
get  to  do,  they  must  have  wanted  even  enough  to  eat, 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT.  163 


It  was  but  six  days  to  New  Year's.  Mrs.  Foster 
had  been  washing  nearly  the  whole  day, — work  that 
she  was  really  not  able  to  do,  and  which  always  so 
tired  her  out,  that  in  the  night  following  she  could 
not  sleep  from  excessive  fatigue, — she  had  been 
washing  nearly  all  day,  and  now,  after  cleaning  up 
the  floor,  and  putting  the  confused  room  into  a  little 
order,  she  sat  down  to  finish  some  work  promised 
by  the  next  morning.  It  was  nearly  dark,  and  she 
was  standing,  with  her  sewing,  close  up  to  the  win 
dow,  in  order  to  see  more  distinctly  in  the  fading 
light,  when  there  came  a  loud  knock  at  the  door. 
One  of  the  children  opened  it,  and  a  man,  whose 
face  she  knew  too  well,  came  in.  He  was  the  owner 
of  the  poor  tenement  in  which  they  lived. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Foster  since  I  was  here 
last  ?"  said  the  man,  with  an  unpleasant  abruptness 
of  manner. 

"  No  sir,  I  have  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Foster,  in  a 
low,  timid  voice,  for  she  felt  afraid  of  the  man. 

"  When  do  you  expect  him  home  ?" 

"  HjQnrill  be  here  at  New  Year's." 

"  Humph  !  Do  you  know  whether  he  will  bring 
any  money  ?" 

"I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell;  but  I  hope  so." 

"He'd  better;" — the  man  spoke  in  a  menacing 
Aone — "for  I  don't  intend  waiting  any  longer  for 
my  rent." 

No  reply  was  made  to  this. 


164  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 


"  Will  you  tell  your  husband,  when  he  returns, 
my  good  woman,  what  I  have  just  said?" 

"  I  will,"  was  meekly  replied. 

"  Very  well.  If  he  doesn't  come  up  to  the  notch 
then,  I  shall  take  my  course.  It  is  simple  and  easy; 
so  you  had  better  be  warned  in  time."  And  the 
man  walked  out  as  abruptly  as  he  came  in.  Mrs. 
Foster  looked  after  him  from  the  window,  where  she 
had  continued  standing,  and  saw  him  stop  and  look 
attentively  at  their  cow,  that  stood  waiting  to  be 
milked,  at  the  door.  A  faintness  came  over  her 
heart,  for  she  understood  now,  better  than  before, 
the  meaning  of  his  threats. 

An  hour  after  dark  George  came  home  with  his 
hand  in  a  sling.  He  went  up,  quickly,  to  where 
his  mother  was  sitting  by  a  table  at  work,  and 
dropping  down  in  a  chair,  hid  his  face  in  her 
lap,  without  speakiraj,  but  bursting  into  tears  as  he 
did  so. 

"Oh  George!  what  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed 
the  mother  in  great  alarm.  "What  ails  your 
hand  ?"  * 

"It  got  mashed  in  the  wheel/*  replied -tile  boy, 
sobbing. 

"Badly?"  asked  the  mother,  turning  pale,  and 
feeling  sick  and  faint. 

"It's  hurt  a  good  deal;  but  the  doctor  tied  it 
up,  and  says  it  wSl  get  well  again;  but  I  won't  be 
able  to  go  to  work  again  in  a  good  while." 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT.  165 


And  the  lad,  from  sobbing,  wept  bitterly.  The 
mother  leaned  her  head  down  upon  her  boy,  and 
wept  with  him. 

"I  don't  mind  the  hurt  so  much/'  said  George,  after 
he  had  recovered  himself;  "but  I  won't  be  able  to 
do  any  thing  at  the  mill  until  it  gets  well." 

"Can't  I  go  to  work  in  his  place,  mamma  ?"  spoke 
up,  quickly,  little  Emma,  just  in  her  tenth  year. 

Mrs.  Foster  kissed  the  earnest  face  of  her  child 
and  said — 

"No,  dear;  you  are  not  old  enough." 

"I'm  nine,  and  most  as  big  as  George.  Yes, 
mamma,  I'm  big  enough.  Won't  you  go  and  ask 
them  to  let  me  come  and  work  in  brother's  place  till 
he  gets  well?" 

The  mother,  her  heart  almost  bursting  with  many 
conflicting  emotions,  drew  the  child's  head  down 
upon  her  bosom,  and  held  it  tightly  against  her 
heart. 

The  time  of  severer  trial  was  evidently  drawing 
near.  Almost  the  last  resource  was  cut  off,  in  the 
injury  jj^r  boy  had  sustained.  She  had  not  looked 
at  his  hand,  nor  did  she  comprehend  the  extent  of 
damage  it  had  received.  It  was  enough,  and  more 
than  enough,  that  it  was  badly  hurt — so  badly,  that 
a  physician  had  been  required  to  dress  it.  How  the 
mother's  heart  did  ache,  as  she  thought  of  the  pain 
her  poor  boy  had  suffered,  and  might  yet  be  doomed 
to  suffer !  And  yet,  amid  this  pain,  camp  intruding 


166  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 

the  thought,  which  she  tried  to  repel  as  a  selfish 
thought,  that  he  could  work  no  more,  and  earn  no 
more,  for,  perhaps,  a  long,  long  time. 

Yes,  the  period  of  severer  trial  had  evidently  come. 
She  did  not  permit  herself  even  to  hope  that  her 
husband  when  he  returned  would  bring  with  him 
enough  money  to  pay  the  rent.  She  knew,  too  wellj 
that  he  would  not;  and  she  also  knew,  alas!  too  well 
that  the  man  to  whose  tender  mercies  they  would  then 
be  exposed  had  no  bowels  of  compassion. 

Wet  with  many  tears  was  the  pillow  upon  which 
the  mother's  head  reposed  that  night.  She  was  too 
weary  in  body  and  sorrowful  in  mind  to  sleep. 

On  the  next  morning  a  deep  snow  lay  upon  the 
ground.  To  some  a  sight  of  the  earth's  pure  white 
covering  was  pleasant,  and  they  could  look  upon 
the  flakes  still  falling  gracefully  through  the  air 
with  a  feeling  of  exhilaration.  But  they  had  food 
and  fuel  in  store — they  had  warm  clothing — they 
had  comfortable  homes.  There  was  no  fear  of  cold 
and  hunger  with  them — no  dread  of  being  sent  forth, 
shelterless,  in  the  chilling  winter.  It  was  Different 
with  Mrs.  Foster  when  she  looked  from  her  window 
at  daylight. 

George  had  been  restless,  and  moaned  a  good  deal 
through  the  night;  but  now  he  slept  soundly,  and 
there  was  a  bright  flush  upon  his  cheeks.  With 
what  a  feeling  of  tenderness  and  yearning  pity  did 
his  mother  bend  over  him,  and  gaze  into  his  fair 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT.  167 

face,  fairer  now  than  it  had  ever  looked  to  her.  But 
she  could  not  linger  long  over  her  sleeping  boy. 
With  the  daylight,  unrefreshed  as  she  was,  came  her 
" never  ending,  still  beginning"  toil;  and  now  she 
felt  that  she  must  toil  harder  and  longer,  and  with 
out  hope. 

Though  little  Emma's  offer  to  go  and  work  in  the 
mill  in  her  brother's  place  had  passed  from  the 
thought  of  Mrs.  Foster,  yet  the  child  had  been  too 
much  in  earnest  to  forget  it  herself.  Young  as  she 
was,  the  very  pressure  of  circumstances  by  which 
she  was  surrounded  had  made  her  comprehend 
clearly  the  necessity  that  existed  for  George  to  go 
and  work  daily  in  the  mill.  She  knew  that  he 
earned  a  dollar  and  a  half  weekly;  and  she  under 
stood  very  well,  that  without  this  income  her  mother 
would  be  greatly  distressed. 

After  she  had  eaten  her  breakfast  of  bread  and 
milk,  the  child  went  up  stairs  and  got  an  old  pair 
of  stockings,  which  she  drew  on  over  her  shoes,  that 
had  long  been  so  worn  as  to  afford  but  little  pro 
tection  to  her  feet;  and  then  taking  from  a  closet  an 
old  shawl,  drew  it  over  her  head.  Thus  attired,  she 
waited  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  until  her  mother 
was  out  of  the  way,  and  -then  went  quickly  down. 
She  managed  to  leave  the  house  without  being  seen 
by  any  one,  and  took  her  way,  through  the  deep 
and  untracked  snow,  towards  the  mill,  which  was 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  The  air  was  bitter 


168  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 


cold,  and  the  storm  still  continued;  but  the  child 
plodded  on,  chilled  to  the  very  heart,  as  she  soon 
was,  and,  at  length,  almost  frozen,  reached  the  mill. 
The  owner  had  observed  her  approach  from  the 
window,  and  wondering  who  she  was,  or  what  brought 
so  small  a  child  to  the  mill  through  the  cold  and 
storm,  went  down  to  meet  her. 

"  Bless  me  !  little  one  !"  he  said,  lifting  her  from 
the  ground  and  placing  her  within  the  door.  "  Who 
are  you,  and  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"I'm  George's  sister,  and  I've  come  to  work  in 
his  place  till  he  gets  well/'  replied  the  child,  as  she 
stood,  with  shivering  body  and  chattering  teeth, 
looking  up  earnestly  into  the  man's  face. 

"  George  Foster's  sister  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  His  hand's  hurt  so  he  can't  work, 
and  I've  come  to  work  in  his  place/' 

"  You  have  !     Who  sent  you,  pray  ?" 

"  Nobody  sent  me." 

"  Does  your  mother  know  about  your  coming  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  work  in  George's  place  ?" 

"  If  I  do,  then  you'll  send  mother  a  dollar  and  a 
half  every  week,  won't  you  ?" 

The  owner  of  the  mill  was  a  kind-hearted  man, 
and  this  little  incident  touched  his  feelings. 

"  You  are  not  big  enough  to  work  in  the  mill,  my 
child,"  said  he;  kindly. 

"I'm  nine  years  old,"  replied  Emma,  quickl.y 


169 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  can  work  as  well  as  anybody.      Do  let 
me  come  in  George's  place  !     Won't  you  ?" 

Emma  had  not  been  gone  very  long  before  she 
was  missed.  Her  mother  had  become  quite  alarmed 
about  her,  when  she  heard  sleigh-bells  at  the  door, 
and,  looking  out,  saw  the  owner  of  the  mill  and  her 
child.  Wondering  what  this  could  mean,  she  went 
out  to  meet  them. 

"  This  little  runaway  of  yours,"  said  the  man,  in 
a  pleasant  voice,  "  came  trudging  over  to  the  mill 
this  morning,  through  the  snow,  and  wanted  to  take 
the  place  of  George,  who  was  so  badly  hurt  yester 
day,  in  order  that  you  might  get,  as  she  said,  a  dol 
lar  and  a  half  every  week." 

"  Why,  Emma !"  exclaimed  her  mother,  as  she 
lifted  her  from  the  sleigh.  "  How  could  you  do  so  ? 
You  are  not  old  enough  to  work  in  your  brother's 
place/' 

"  Besides,"  said  the  man,  "  there  is  no  need  of 
your  doing  so ;  for  George  shall  have  his  dollar  and 
a  half,  the  same  as  ever,  until  he  is  able  to  go  to 
work  again.  So  then,  my  little  one,  set  your  heart 
at  rest." 

Emma  understood  this  very  well,  and  bounded 
away  into  the  house  to  take  the  good  news  to  her 
brother,  who  was  as  much  rejoiced  as  herself.  After 
inquiring  about  George,  and  repeating  to  Mrs. 
Foster  what  he  had  said  to  Emma,  he  told  her 
that  he  would  pay  the  doctor  for  attending  the  lad, 


170  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 


so  that  th'->  accident  needn't  prove  a  burden  to 
her. 

The  heart  of  Mrs.  Foster  lifted  itself,  thankfully, 
as  she  -went  back  into  the  house. 

"  Don't  scold  her,  mother,"  said  George.  "  She 
thought  she  was  doing  right." 

This  appeal,  so  earnestly  made,  quite  broke  down 
the  feelings  of  Mrs.  Foster,  and  she  went  quickly 
into  another  room,  and  closing  the  door  after  her, 
sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and,  burying  her  face 
in  a  pillow,  suffered  her  tears  to  flow  freely. 
Scold  the  child  !  She  felt  more  like  taking  her 
in  her  arms,  and  hugging  her  passionately  to  her 
bosom. 

To  know  that  the  small  income  her  boy's  labour 
had  produced  was  not  to  be  cut  off,  proved  a  great 
relief  to  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Foster  ]  but,  in  a  little 
while,  her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  landlord's 
threat  and  the  real  distress  and  hopelessness  of 
their  situation.  To  the  period  of  her.  husband's 
return  she  looked  with  no  feeling  of  liope ;  but, 
rather,  with  a  painful  certainty,  that  ms  appearance 
would  be  the  signal  for  the  landlord  to  put  his 
threats  into  execution. 

Sadly  the  days  went  by,  each  one  bringing  nearer 
the  time  towards  which  the  unhappy  woman  now 
.ooked  forward  with  a  feeling  of  dread.  That  the 
landlord  would  keep  his  promise,  she  did  not,  for  an 
instant;  doubt.  Without  their  cow,  how  could  she, 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT.  171 

with  all  her  exertions,  feed  her  children  ?     No  won  • 
der  that  her  heart  was  troubled. 

At  last  the  day  before  the  opening  year  came. 

"  Papa  will  be  home  to-morrow/'  said  Emma.  "  I 
wonder  what  he  will  bring  me  for  a  New  Year's  gift." 

"  I  wish  he  would  bring  me  a  book/'  said  George! 

"  I'd  like  a  pair  of  new  shoes/'  remarked  the 
little  girl,  more  soberly,  looking  down  at  her  feet, 
upon  which  were  tied,  with  coarse  strings,  what 
were  called  shoes,  but  hardly  retained  their  sem 
blance.  "  And  mamma  wants  shoes,  too,"  added  the 
child.  "  Oh  !  I  wish  papa  would  bring  her,  for  a 
New  Year's  gift,  a  nice  new  pair  of  shoes." 

The  mother  heard  her  children  talking,  and  sighod 
to  think  how  vain  were  all  their  expectations. 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  turkey  for  father's  New  Year's 
dinner,"  said  Emma. 

"And  some  mince  pies!"  spoke  up  little  Hetty, 
the  youngest,  clapping  her  hands.  "  Why  don't 
we  have  mince  pies,  mamma  ?"  she  said,  taking  hold 
of  her  mother's  apron  and  looking  up  at  her. 
"Papa  likes^  mince  pies,  I  know;  and  so  do  I. 
Don't  you  like  inijipe.pies,  George  ?" 

George,  who  was  old  enough  to  understand  better 
than  the  rest  of  them  the  true  cause  of  the  priva 
tions  they  suJWNTd,  saw  that  Hetty's  questions  had 
brought  tears  to  his  mother's  eyes,  and,  with  a 
thoughtfulness  beyond  his  years,  sought  to  turn  the 
conversation  into  another  channel. 


172  THE  NEW  TEAR'S  GIFT. 


But  the  words  of  the  children  had  brought  to  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Foster  a  memory  of  other  times, — 
of  the  many  happy  New  Years  she  had  enjoyed 
with  her  husband,  their  board  crowned  with  the 
blessings  of  the  year.  Her  dim  eyes  turned  from 
her  neglected  little  ones,  and  fell  upon  a  small  orna 
ment  that  stood  upon  the  mantle.  It  was  the  New 
Year's  gift  of  her  husband  in  better  days.  It  re 
minded  her  too  strongly  of  the  contrast  between 
that  time  and  the  gloomy  present.  She  went  quickly 
from  the  room,  to  weep  unheard  and  alone. 

New  Year's  morning  at  length  broke  clear  and 
cold.  Mrs.  Foster  was  up  betimes.  It  was  no 
holiday  to  her.  Early  in  the  day  her  husband  was 
to  come  home,  and  though  she  could  not  help  look 
ing  and  wishing  for  him  to  come,  yet  the  thought 
of  him  produced  a  pressure  in  her  bosom.  She  felt 
that  his  presence  would  only  bring  for  her  heart  a 
deeper  shadow. 

The  children  had  grown  eager  for  him  to  come. 
The  younger  ones  talked  of  the  presents  he  would 
bring  them,  while  George  thought  of  a  book,  yet 
dared  hardly  hope  to  receive  onev.  At  last,  Emma 
descried  her  father  far  down  the  road,  and  announced, 
ir  a  loud  voice,  his  coming.  The  heart  of  the 
mother  throbbed  quicker. at  the  wofO.  She  went 
to  the  window,  where  the  children  crowded,  feeling 
troubled,  and  yet  with  something  of  the  old  glad 
ness  about  her  heart.  She  strained  her  eyes  to  see 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT.  173 


him,  and  yet  dreaded  to  fix  them  upon  him  too  in 
tently,  lest  more  should  be  seen  than  she  wished  to 
see.  He  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  she  was  yet 
at  the  window,  her  heart  beating  audibly.  Could 
her  eyes  deceive  her,  or  was  it  indeed  so  ?  His 
form  was  erect  and  his  step  firm,  and,  though  his 
clothes  were  the  same,  they  did  not  look  so 
untidy. 

"  Thank  God !"  she  ejaculated  silently,  yet  fer 
vently,  as  he  came  nearer  still — "  he  is  sober." 

Yes,  he  was  sober. 

"  Henry  I"  she  could  not  say  another  word,  as  she 
took  his  hand  when  he  came  in.  Her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  He  pressed  her  thin,  small,  labour-worn 
hand  tightly,  and  then  turned  and  sat  down.  He, 
too,  was  moved  as  well  as  she.  But  the  children 
gathered  around  him,  and  seemed  gladder  to  see  him 
than  when  he  was  last  home.  There  was  a  reason 
for  this.  Seeing  the  hand  of  George  in  a  sling,  he 
inquired  the  cause,  and  when  told  of  the  accident, 
appeared  deeply  grieved,  and  said  he  should  not  go 
back  to  the  mill  any  more.  The  heart  of  his  wife 
fluttered.  "Was  there  a  meaning  deeper  than  a  mo 
mentary  impulse  ?  At  last  little  Hetty,  who  had 
climbed  upon  his  knee,  said,  "Where's  my  New 
Year's  gift,  papa  ?" 

The  father  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled 
out  a  small  picture-book,  and  gave  it  to  the   child; 
who  was  wild  with  joy  in  a  moment.     He  had  a 
15* 


174  THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT. 


larger  book  for  Emma,  and  Robinson  Crusoe   foi 
George. 

"  And  what  for  mother  ?"  asked  Emma,  looking 
earnestly  at  her  father.  "  Haven't  you  brought  dear 
mother  a  New  Year's  gift,  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  father,  "  I've  got  some 
thing  for  her  also."  His  voice  was  a  little  unsteady 
as  he  said  this.  Then  he  put  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  again,  and,  after  keeping  it  there  for  a  mo 
ment  or  two,  drew  out  a  large  folded  piece  of  paper 
that  looked  like  a  title-deed,  and  handed  it  to  his 
wife,  who  took  it  with  a  trembling  hand.  She 
opened  it,  read  a  few  words,  and,  bursting  into  tears, 
turned  and  went  quickly  from  the  room.  Hers 
were  tears  of  joy — unutterable  joy. 

Was  it  then  a  title-deed  of  property  that  her  hus 
band  had  given  her,  filling  her  heart  with  gladness 
at  the  thought  of  relief  from  toil,  and  privation,  and 
suffering  ?  No,  it  was  better  than  that,  and  brought 
a  fuller  and  more  perfect  joy.  It  was  a  New  Year's 
gift  such  as  she  had  never  dared  hope  to  receive — 
the  dearest  gift  in  the  power  of  her  husband  to  be 
stow.  Already  blotted  with  tears,  it  was  tightly 
pressed  to  her  heaving  bosom. 

What  was  it  ?  What  could  it  be  but  the  blessed 
temperance  pledge,  signed,  in  a  firm  hand,  with  her 
husband's  name. 

That  was  indeed  a  happy  New  Year's  day  to  the 
wife  and  mother,  who,  when  the  mo  ning  dawned. 


THE  NEW  YEAR'S  GIFT.  175 

felt  that  she  was  entering  upon  the  darkest  days  of 
her  troubled  existence.  But  a  brighter  day  un 
known  was  breaking.  It  broke,  and  no  gloomy 
clouds  have  since  arisen  to  obscure  its  smiling 
skies. 


AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 


\ 
"I  DECLARE,  if  these   preserves   haven't  been 

working !"  exclaimed  Aunt  Mary,  as  she  opened  a 
jar  of  choice  quinces,  and  perceived  that,  since  they 
were  sealed  up  and  carefully  stored  for  the  winter, 
fermentation  had  taken  place. 

"  And  the  peaches,  too,  as  I  live  !"  she  added  on 
examining  another  jar.  "  Run,  Hannah,  and  bring 
me  my  preserving  kettle.  I  shall  have  to  do  them 
all  over." 

"  Mrs.  Tompkins  borrowed  it,  you  know,  yester 
day,"  Hannah  replied. 

"  So  she  did,  I  declare !  Well,  you  must  run 
over  to  Mrs.  Tompkins,  Hannah,  and  tell  her  that 
I  want  my  preserving  kettle." 

Hannah  departed,  and  Aunt  Mary  proceeded  to 
examine  jar  after  jar  of  her  rich  store  of  preserves, 
and,  much  to  her  disappointment,  found  that  all  of 
her  quinces  and  peaches,  comprising  some  eight  or 
ten  jars,  had  commenced  working.  These  she  took 
from  their  dark  corners  in  the  closet,  and,  placing 
them  on  the  large  table  in  the  kitchen,  awaited  pa 
tiently  Hannah's  return.  In  about  fifteen  minutes 

her  help  entered. 
176 


177 


11  But  where  is  the  kettle  ?"  inquired  Aunt  Mary, 
eagerly. 

"  Why,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Tompkins  says  as  how  she 
ain't  quite  done  with  it  yet;  she's  finished  her 
pears ;  but  then  she  has  her  mamlet  to  do." 

Aunt  Mary  Pierce  was  a  good  woman,  and  her 
heart  was  full  of  kind  feelings  towards  others.  But 
she  had  her  foibles  as  well  as  her  neighbours,  and 
among  these  was  an  almost  passionate  admiration 
of  her  beautiful  bell-metal  preserving  kettle,  which 
was  always  kept  as  bright  as  a  gold  eagle.  Nothing 
tried  Aunt  Mary  more  than  to  have  to  lend  her 
preserving  kettle.  But  as  in  reading  her  Bible  she 
found  it  written — Of  him  that  would  borrow  of 
thce  turn  thou  not  away — she  dared  not  refuse  any 
of  the  applications  that  were  made  for  it,  and  in 
preserving  time  these  were  enough  to  try  the  pa 
tience  of  even  a  better  woman  than  Aunt  Mary. 
The  fact  was,  that  Aunt  Mary's  preserving  kettle 
was  the  best  in  the  village,  and  there  were  at  least 
a  "dozen  or  two  of  her  neighbours,  who  did  not 
think  their  sweetmeats  good  for  any  thing  if  not 
prepared  in  this  favourite  kettle. 

"  Ain't  it  too  bad  !"  ejaculated  Aunt  Mary,  lift 
ing  her  hands  and  then  letting  them  fall  quickly. 
"  Ain't  it  too  bad !  But  it  is  always  so  !  Just 
when  I  want  my  own  things,  somebody's  got  them. 
Go  right  back,  Hannah,  and  tell  Mrs.  Tompkins 
that  my  preserves  are  all  a  working,  and  'ihat  I 


178      AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 


must    have    my  kettle    at    once,    or  they  will   be 
ruined." 

Hannah  started  off  again,  and  Aunt  Mary  stood, 
far  less  patiently  than  before,  beside  the  table  on 
which  she  had  placed  her  jars,  and  awaited  her  re 
turn. 

"  Well,"  she  asked  eagerly,  as  Hannah  entered 
after  the  lapse  of  some  ten  minutes,  "  where  is  the 
kettle  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Tompkins  says,  ma'am,  that  she  is  very 
sorry  that  your  preserves  have  commenced  working, 
but  that  it  won't  hurt  them  if  they  are  not  done 
over  for  three  or  four  days.  She  says  that  her 
mamlet  is  all  ready  to  put  on,  and  as  soon  as  that  is 
done  you  shall  have  the  kettle  in  welcome." 

Poor  Aunt  Mary  was,  for  a  few  minutes,  mute 
with  astonishment.  On  recovering  herself,  she  did 
not  storm  and  fret.  Indeed,  she  was  never  guilty 
of  these  little  housewife  effervescences,  usually  taking 
every  trouble  with  a  degree  of  Christian  meekness 
that  it  would  have  been  well  for  many  in  the  village, 
even  the  minister's  wife,  to  have  imitated. 

"  Well,  Hannah,"  she  said,  heaving  a  sigh,  "  we 
shall  have  to  wait,  I  suppose,  until  Mrs.  Tompkins 
has  finished  her  marmalade.  But  I  am  afraid  all 
these  preserves  will  be  spoiled.  Unless  done  over 
immediately  on  their  beginning  to  work,  they  get  a 
flavour  that  is  not  pleasant.  But  we  must  wait 
patiently." 


AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE.      179 


"It's  a  downright  shame,  ma'am,  so  it  is  !"  said 
Hannah,  "  and  I  wonder  you  take  it  so  quietly.  If 
it  was  my  kettle,  and  I  wanted  it,  I  reckon  I'd  have 
it  too  quick.  Only  just  say  the  word,  ma'am,  and  I 
will  get  it  for  you  if  I  have  to  take  it  off  of  the 
fire." 

"  Oh  no,  no,  no,  not  for  the  world,  Hannah  !" 
replied  Aunt  Mary,  to  her  indignant  help.  "  We 
will  try  and  wait  for  her,  though  it  is  a  little  hard 
to  have  one's  things  always  a-going,  and  never  to  be 
able  to  put  your  hands  on  them  when  you  want 
them/' 

All  the  next  day  Aunt  Mary  suffered  the  jars  of 
fermenting  preserves  to  remain  on  the  kitchen  table. 
Every  time  her  eye  rested  upon  them,  unkind 
thoughts  would  arise  in  her  mind  against  her  neigh 
bour,  Mrs.  Tompkins,  but  she  used  her  best  efforts 
to  suppress  them.  About  the  middle  of  the  next 
day,  as  the  preserving  kettle  did  not  make  its  ap 
pearance,  Hannah  was  again  despatched,  with  direc 
tions  to  urge  upon  Mrs.  Tompkins  the  pressing  ne 
cessity  there  was  for  its  being  returned.  In  due 
time  Hannah  made  her  appearance,  but  without  the 
kettle. 

"  Well  ?"  inquired  Aunt  Mary,  in  a  tone  of  dis 
appointment. 

"  Mrs.  Tompkins  says,  ma'am,"  replied  Hannah, 
" that. you  needn't  be  in  such  a  fever  about  your 
old  preserving  kettle,  and  that  it  is  not  at  all  neigh- 


180       AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 


bourly  to  be  sending  for  a  thing  before  it  is  done 
with.  She  says  she  won't  be  through  with  her  mam- 
let  before  day  after  to-morrow,  and  that  you  can't 
hive  the  kettle  before  then." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  downright  shame !"  said  Aunt 
Mary,  with  a  warmth  of  manner  unusual  to  her. 

"And  so  I  told  her/'  responded  Hannah. 

"  You  did  !     And  what  did  Mrs.  Tompkins  say?" 

"  Oh,  she  fired  right  up,  and  said  she  didn't  want 
any  of  my  imperdence." 

"  But  you  oughtn't  to  have  said  so,  Hannah." 

"  How  could  I  help  it,  ma'am,  when  my  blood 
was  boiling  over?  It  is  a  shame;  that's  the  truth." 

Aunt  Mary  did  not  reply,  but  she  thought  all  that 
Hannah  had  said  to  Mrs.  Tompkins,  and  a  good  deal 
more.  Indeed,  her  forbearance  was  sorely  tried. 
Never  since  she  could  recollect,  had  she  felt  so  un 
kindly  towards  any  one  as  she  now  did  towards  her 
neighbour  and  fellow  church  member.  Often  did 
she  try  to  put  away  these  unkind  and  troublesome 
thoughts ;  but  the  effort  was  vain.  Mrs.  Tompkins 
had  trespassed  so  far  upon  her  rights,  and  then  put 
such  a  face  upon  it,  that  she  could  not  help  feeling 
incensed  at  her  conduct. 

After  a  while  "  day  after  to-morrow"  came,  which 
was  on  Saturday. 

"  I  must  have  that  kettle  to-day,  Hannah,"  said 
she,  and  Hannah  started  off  to  Mrs.  Tompkins. 

"  You  needn't  come  after  that  kettle  to-day,"  spoke 


181 


up  Mrs.  Tompkins,  as  Hannah  entered,  "  my  mar 
malade  is  not  all  done  yet." 

11  But  we  must  have  it  to-day,  Mrs.  Tompkins, 
Mrs.  Pierce  says  as  how  I  mustn't  come  home  with 
out  it.  The  preserves  are  nearly  ruined  now,  and 
all  because  you  didn't  send  home  the  kittle  when 
we  first  wanted  it." 

"  I  want  none  of  your  impudence/'  said  Mrs. 
Tompkins,  going  off  at  once  into  a  passion,  for  she 
was  rather  a  high-tempered  woman,  "and  so  just 
shut  up  at  once.  If  Mrs.  Pierce  is  so  fussy  about 
her  old  worn-out  kettle,  she  can  have  it  and  make 
the  most  out  of  it.  A  pretty  neighbour,  indeed  ! 
Here,  Sally,"  calling  to  her  help,  "  empty  that  ket 
tle  and  give  it  to  Hannah." 

"Where  shall  I  empty  it?"  asked  Sally. 

"  Empty  it  into  the  slop  barrel,  for  what  I  care; 
the  whole  kettle  of  marmalade  will  be  spoiled  any 
how.  A  pretty  neighbour,  indeed  !" 

Sally,  who  understood  her  mistress's  mood,  knew 
very  well  that  her  orders  were  not  to  be  literally 
obeyed.  So  she  took  the  preserving  kettle  from  the 
fire,  and  poured  its  contents  into  a  large  pan,  instead 
of  the  slop  barrel. 

"  Here's  the  kettle,"  said  she,  bringing  it  in  and 
handing  it  to  Hannah.  It  was  black  and  dirty  on 
the  outside,  and  within  all  besmeared  with  the  mar 
malade,  for  Sally  cared  not  to  take  the  trouble  of 
cleaning  it. 

16 


1812      AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 


"  There,  take  the  kettle !"  said  Mrs.  Tompkins  iii 
an  excited  tone,  "  and  tell  Mrs.  Pierce  that  it  is  the 
last  time  I'll  borrow  any  thing  from  her." 

Hannah  took  the  kettle,  and  started  for  home  at 
full  speed. 

"  So  you've  got  it  at  last,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  when 
Hannah  entered ;  "  and  a  pretty  looking  thing  it  is  I 
Really  it  is  too  bad  to  have  a  thing  sent  home  in 
that  predicament." 

"  But  ain't  she  mad  though!"  remarked  Hannah, 
with  something  of  exultation  in  her  tones. 

"What  in  the  world  can  she  be  mad  about?" 
asked  Aunt  Mary  in  surprise. 

"  Mad  because  I  would  have  the  kittle.  Why, 
there  she  had  her  mamlet  on  the  fire,  boiling  away, 
and  said  you  couldn't  have  the  kittle.  But  I  told  her 
you  must  have  it ;  that  your  preserves  were  nearly 
all  spoiled,  just  because  you  couldn't  get  your  own 
kittle.  Oh,  but  didn't  she  bile  over  then !  And  so 
she  told  Sally  to  pour  the  mamlet  into  the  slop 
barrel,  as  it  would  all  be  spoiled  any  how,  by  your 
unneighbourly  treatment  to  her." 

Poor  Aunt  Mary  was  dreadfully  grieved  at  this. 
She  loved  the  good  opinion  of  her  neighbours,  and 
it  always  gave  her  pleasure  to  oblige  them ;  but,  in 
this  case,  she  had  been  tried  beyond  endurance.  She 
had  little  heart  now  to  touch  her  preserves,  and  so 
went  off  to  her  chamber  and  sat  down,  overcome  by 
painful  feelings. 


AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE.       183 


In  the  mean  time,  Hannah  went  to  work,  and,  by 
dint  of  half  an  hour's  hard  scouring,  got  the  kettle 
to  look  something  like  itself.  She  then  went  up 
and  told  Aunt  Mary  that  every  thing  was  now  ready 
for  doing  the  preserves  over  again. 

"  I  reckon  we'll  not  boil  them  over  to-day,  Han 
nah,"  she  replied.  "  It's  Saturday,  and  you've  got 
a  good  deal  of  cleaning  to  do,  and  I  don't  feel  much 
like  touching  them.  The  preserves  won't  get  much 
worse  by  Monday." 

Hannah,  who  understood  her  mistress's  feelings, 
and  sympathized  with  her,  because  she  loved  her, 
did  not  urge  the  matter,  but  at  once  withdrew  and 
left  Aunt  Mary  to  her  own  unpleasant  reflections. 

It  so  happened  that  the  next  day  was  the  Commu 
nion  Sabbath ;  and  this  fact  had  at  once  occurred  to 
Aunt  Mary  when  Hannah  repeated  the  words  of 
Mrs.  Tompkins,  and  stated  that  she  was  very  angry. 
Mrs.  Tompkins  was  a  member  and  communicant  of 
the  same  church  with  her.  After  sitting  thought 
fully  in  her  chamber  for  some  time,  Aunt  Mary  took 
up  the  communion  service  and  commenced  reading 
it.  When  she  came  to  the  words,  "Ye  who  do 
truly  and  earnestly  repent  of  your  sins,  and  are  in 
love  and  charity  with  your  neighbours,"  &c.  &c.,  she 
paused  and  sat  thoughtful  and  troubled  for  some  time. 

"  Am  I  in  love  and  charity  with  my  neighbours  ?" 
she  at  length  asked  herself,  aloud,  drawing  a  heavy 
sigh. 


184      AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 


"No,  I  am  not/'  was  the  mental  response.  " Mrs 
Tompkins  is  angry  with  me,  and  I  am  sure  I  do  not 
feel  right  towards  her." 

During  all  that  afternoon,  Aunt  Mary  remained 
in  her  chamber,  in  deep  communion  with  herself. 
For  the  last  twenty  years  she  had  never,  on  a  single 
occasion,  stayed  away  from  the  Lord's  table;  but  now 
she  felt  that  she  dared  not  go  forward,  for  she  was 
not  in  love  and  charity  with  her  neighbours,  and  the 
injunction  was  explicit.  Night  came,  and  at  the 
usual  hour  she  retired,  but  not  to  sleep  the  sweet 
refreshing  sleep  that  usually  locked  up  her  senses. 
Her  thoughts  were  so  active  and  troubled,  that  she 
could  not  sink  away  into  a  quiet  slumber  until  long 
after  midnight.  In  the  morning  she  felt  no  better, 
and,  as  church  time  approached,  her  heart  beat  more 
heavily  in  her  bosom.  Finally,  the  nine  o'clock  bell 
rang,  and  every  stroke  seemed  like  &  knell.  At  last 
the  hour  for  assembling  came,  and  Aunt  Mary,  cast 
down  in  heart,  repaired  to  the  meeting-house.  The 
pew  of  Mrs.  Tompkins  was  just  in  front  of  Aunt 
Mary's,  but  that  lady  did  not  turn  around  and  smile 
and  give  her  hand  as  usual  when  she  entered.  All 
this  Aunt  Mary  felt. 

In  due  time  the  services  commenced,  and  regu- 
].arly  progressed  to  their  conclusion,  the  minister 
preaching  a  very  close  sermon.  The  solemn  and 
impressive  communion  service  followed,  and  then 
the  members  went  up  to  partake  of  the  sacred  em- 


AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE.      185 

blems.  But  Aunt  Mary  did  not  go  up  as  usual 
She  could  not;  for  she  was  not  in  love  and  charih 
with  her  neighbours.  This  was  noticed  by  many, 
and  particularly  by  the  minister,  who  lingered  after 
all  had  successively  approached  the  table  and  re- 
tired,  repeating  his  invitation,  while  his  eye  was 
fixed  upon  Aunt  Mary. 

"What  can  be  the  matter ?"  asked  Mrs.  Peabody 
of  Mrs.  Beebe,  the  moment  she  got  outside  of  the 
church  door.     "Aunt  Mary  didn't  go  up." 
"  Indeed  !     It  can't  be  possible  ?" 
"  Yes,  but  it  is.     For  I  sat  just  behind  her  all 
the  time.     She  seemed  very  uneasy,  and  I  thought 
troubled.     She  hardly  looked  up  during  the  sermon, 
and  hurried  away,  without  speaking  to  any  one,  as 
soon  as  the  congregation  was  dismissed  at  the  close  of 
the  communion  service.     What  can  be  the  matter  ?" 
"  It  is  strange,  indeed  !"  responded  Mrs.  Green, 
who   came  up  while  Mrs.  Peabody  was  speaking. 
"  I  took  notice  myself  that  she  did  not  go  up." 
"I  wonder  if  she  has  done  any  thino-  wron°-?" 
"Oh,  no!" 

"  Then  what  can  be  the  matter  ?" 
"  I  would  give  any  thing  to  know  !" 
"  Something  is  wrong,  that  is  certain,"  remarked 
one  of  the  little  crowd,  for  the  group  of  two  or  three 
had  swelled  to  as  many  dozens. 

Many  were  the  suggestions  made  in  reference  to 
Aunt  Mary's  conduct;  and,  before  Sabbath  evening 

16* 


186      AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 


there  was  not  one  of  the  members  that  did  not  know 
and  wonder  at  her  strange  omission. 

After  Aunt  Mary  returned  from  church,  she  felt 
even  worse  than  before.  A  sacred  privilege  had  been 
deliberately  omitted,  and  all  because  she  had  let 
unkindness  spring  up  between  herself  and  her 
neighbour. 

"  And  yet  how  -ould  I  help  it?"  she  argued  with 
herself.  "  I  was  tired  out  of  all  patience.  I  only 
sent  for  my  own,  and  because  I  did  so,  Mrs.  Tomp- 
kins  became  offended.  I  am  sure  I  was  not  to 
blame." 

"But  then,"  said  another  voice  within  her,  "you 
could  have  gone  over  on  Saturday  and  made  up  the 
matter  with  her,  and  then  there  would  have  been 
nothing  in  the  way.  One  duty  neglected  only 
opened  the  way  for  another." 

There  was  something  in  this  that  could  not  be 
gainsaid,  and  poor  Aunt  Mary  felt  as  deeply  trou 
bled  as  ever.  She  did  not,  as  usual,  go  to  the  after 
noon  meeting,  for  she  had  no  heart  to  do  so.  And 
then,  as  the  shades  of  evening  fell  dimly  around,  she 
reproached  herself  for  this  omission.  Poor  soul! 
how  sadly  did  she  vex  her  spirit  by  self-condem 
nation. 

That  evening  several  of  the  society  called  in  at 
the  minister's  house,  and  soon  Aunt  Mary's  singular 
conduct  became  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"  Ain't  it  strange  ?"  said  one.     "  Such  a  thing 


AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE.      187 


lias  not  occurred  for  these  ten  years,  to  my  certain 
knowledge." 

"No,  nor  for  twenty  either,"  remarked  the  min 
ister. 

"  She  seemed  very  uneasy  during  the  sermon," 
said  another. 

"  I  thought  she  did  not  appear  well,  as  my  eye 
fell  upon  her  occasionally,"  the  minister  added. 
"  But  she  is  one  of  the  best  of  women,  and  I  sup 
pose  she  is  undergoing  some  sore  temptation,  out  of 
which  she  will  come  as  gold  tried  in  the  fire." 

"  I  don't  know,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Tompkins,  who 
was  among  the  visitors,  "that  she  is  so  much  better 
than  other  people.  For  my  part,  I  can't  say  that  I 
ever  found  her  to  be  any  thing  extra." 

"You  do  not  judge  of  her  kindly,  Mrs.  Toinp- 
kins,"  said  the  minister  gravely.  "I  only  wish 
that  all  my  parish  were  as  good  as  she  is.  I  should 
feel,  in  that  case,  I  am  sure,  far  less  concern  fol 
souls  than  I  do." 

Thus  rebuked,  Mrs.  Tompkins  contented  herself 
by  saying,  in  an  under-tone,  to  one  who  sat  near 
her — 

"  They  may  say  what  they  please,  but  I  am  well 
enough  acquainted  with  her  to  know  that  she  is  no 
better  than  other  people." 

Thus  the  conversation  and  the  conjectures  went 
round,  while  the  subject  of  them  sat  in  solitude  and 
sadness  in  her  own  chamber.  Finally,  the  minister 


188      AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 

said  that  he  would  call  in  and  have  some  conversa 
tion  with  her  on  the  next  day,  as  he  had  no  doubt 
that  there  was  some  trouble  on  her  mind,  and  it 
might  be  in  his  power  to  relieve  it. 

Monday  morning  came  at  last,  and  Aunt  Mary 
proceeded,  though  with  but  little  interest  in  her  oc 
cupation,  to  "  do  over"  her  preserves.  She  found 
them  in  a  state  that  gave  her  little  hope  of  being 
able  to  restore  them  to  any  thing  like  their  original 
flavour.  But  the  trial  must  be  made,  and  so  she 
filled  her  kettle  as  full  as  requisite  of  a  particular 
kind,  and  hung  it  over  a  slow  fire.  This  had  hardly 
been  done,  when  Hannah  came  in  and  said — 

"  As  I  live,  Mrs.  Pierce,  there  is  the  minister 
coming  up  the  walk  I" 

And  sure  enough,  on  glancing  out,  she  saw  the 
minister  almost  at  the  door-step. 

"  Bless  me  !"  she  exclaimed,  and  then  hurried 
into  her  little  parlour,  to  await  the  knock  of  her 
unexpected  visitor.  At  almost  any  other  time,  a 
call  from  the  minister  would  have  been  delightful. 
But  now,  poor  Aunt  Mary  felt  that  she  would  as 
soon  have  seen  any  one  else. 

The  knock  came  in  a  moment,  and,  after  a  pause, 
fche  door  was  opened. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Mary  ?  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you,"  said  the  minister,  extending  his  hand. 

Aunt  Mary  looked  troubled  and  confused;  but 
she  received  him  in  the  best  way  she  could.  Still 


AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE.      189 

her  manner  embarrassed  them  both.  After  a  few 
leading  observations,  the  minister  at  length  said — 

"You  seem  troubled,  Aunt  Mary.  Can  any 
thing  that  I  might  say  relieve  the  pain  of  mind 
you  evidently  feel  ?" 

The  tears  came  into  Aunt  Mary's  eyes,  but  she 
could  not  venture  to  reply.  The  minister  observed 
her  emotion,  and  also  the  meek  expression  of  her 
countenance. 

"  Do  not  vex  yourself  unnecessarily,"  he  remark 
ed.  "  If  any  thing  has  gone  wrong  with  you,  deal 
frankly  with  your  minister.  You  know  that  I  am 
ever  ready  to  counsel  and  advise." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  and  her  voice 
trembled.  "  And  I  need  much  your  kind  direction. 
Yet  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  my  troubles. 
One  thing,  however,  is  certain.  I  have  done  wrong. 
But  how  to  mend  that  wrong  I  know  not,  while  there 
exists  an  unwillingness  on  my  part  to  correct  it." 

"You  must  shun  evil  as  sin,"  the  minister  re 
marked  in  a  serious  tone. 

"  I  know,  and  it  is  for  that  reason  I  am  troubled. 
I  have  unwind  thoughts,  and  they  are  evil,  and  yet 
I  cannot  put  these  unkind  thoughts  away." 

For  a  moment  the  minister  sat  silent,  and  then, 
looking  up  with  a  smile,  said — 

"  Come,  Aunt  Mary,  be  open  and  frank.  Tell 
me  all  the  particulars  of  your  troubles,  and  then  I 
am  sure  I  can  help  you." 


Aunt  Mary,  in  turn,  sat  silent  and  thoughtful  for 
a  short  period,  and  then,  raising  her  head,  she  pro 
ceeded  to  relate  her  troubles.  She  told  him  how 
much  she  had  been  tried,  year  after  year,  during 
the  preserving  season,  by  the  neighbours  who  had 
borrowed  her  preserving  kettle.  It  was  the  best  in 
the  village,  and  she  took  a  pride  in  it,  but  she  could 
have  no  satisfaction  in  its  possession.  It  was  al 
ways  going,  and  never  returned  in  good  order.  She 
then  frankly  related  how  she  had  been  tried  by 
Mrs.  Tompkins,  and  how  nearly  all  of  her  preserves 
were  spoiled,  because  she  could  not  get  home  her 
kettle, — how  the  unkind  feelings  which  had  sud 
denly  sprung  up  between  them  in  consequence  had 
troubled  her,  and  even  caused  her  to  abstain,  under 
conscientious  scruples,  from  the  communion. 

The  minister's  heart  felt  lighter  in  his  bosom  as 
she  concluded  her  simple  narrative,  and,  smiling  en 
couragingly,  he  said — "  Don't  let  it  trouble  you, 
Aunt  Mary;  it  will  all  come  right  again.  You  have 
certainly  been  treated  very  badly,  and  I  don't  won 
der  at  all  that  your  feelings  were  tried/' 

"  But  what  shall  I  do?"  asked  Aunt  Mary,  eager 
ly,  "I  feel  very  much  troubled,  and  am  very 
anxious  to  have  all  unkindness  done  away." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  forgive  Mrs.  Tompkins?" 

"  Oh,  yes  She  has  not  acted  kindly,  but  I  can 
forgive  her  from  my  heart." 

"  Then  you  might  call  over  and  see  her,   and 


AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE.      191 

explain  the  whole  matter.  I  am  sure  all  difficulties 
will  end  there." 

"  I  will  go  this  day,"  Aunt  Mary  said,  encourag 
ingly. 

The  minister  sat  a  short  time  longer,  and  then 
went  away.  He  had  no  sooner  gone,  than  Aunt 
Mary  put  on  her  things  and  went  directly  over  to 
Mrs.  Tompkins. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Pierce,"  that  lady  said, 
coolly,  as  her  visitor  entered.  She  had  always  before 
called  Aunt  Mary  by  the  familiar  name  by  which 
she  was  known  in  the  village. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Tompkins.  I  have  come 
over  to  say  that  I  am  very  sorry  if  I  offended  you 
on  Saturday.  I  am  sure  I  did  not  mean  to  do  so. 
I  only  sent  for  my  kettle,  and  would  not  have  done 
that,  had  not  some  seven  or  eight  jars  of  preserves 
been  working. 

O 

"  Oh,  it  was  no  offence  to  send  for  your  kettle," 
Mrs.  Tompkins  replied,  smiling.  "That  was  all 
right  and  proper.  I  was  only  a  little  vexed  at  your 
Hannah's  impudence.  But,  Aunt  Mary,  <  let  has- 
beens  be  has-beens/  I  am  sorry  that  there  has 
occurred  the  least  bit  of  coolness  between  us." 

Aunt  Mary's  heart  bounded  as  lightly  as  if  a 
hundred-pound  weight  had  been  taken  from  it;  she 
was  made  happy  on  the  instant. 

"  You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  you  say 
so,  Mrs.  Tompkins,"  she  said,  earnestly.  "  It  has 


192      AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 

removed  a  load  from  my  heart.  Hereafter,  I  hope 
nothing  will  occur  again  to  disturb  our  friendly 
feelings.  You  may  have  the  kettle  again,  in  a  day 
or  two,  in  welcome,  and  keep  it  as  long  as  you 
please." 

The  breach  was  thus  easily  healed;  and  had  Aunt 
Mary  gone  over  on  Saturday  to  see  Mrs.  Tompkins, 
she  would  have  saved  herself  a  world  of  trouble. 

Still,  nothing  of  this  was  known  to  the  other  mem 
bers  of  the  church,  who  were  as  full  of  conjecture 
as  ever,  touching  the  singular  conduct,  as  they  called 
it,  of  Aunt  Mary.  The  minister  said  nothing,  and 
Mrs.  Tompkins,  of  course,  said  nothing;  and  no  one 
ventured  to  question  Aunt  Mary. 

On  the  next  Sabbath,  Aunt  Mary  came  to  church 
as  usual,  and  all  eyes  were  instantly  upon  her. 
Some  thought  she  still  looked  troubled,  and  was 
paler  than  before,  while  others  perceived  that  she 
was  really  more  cheerful.  In  due  time,  the  minister 
arose  and  announced  his  text : 

"  Give  to  him  that  asketh,  and  of  him  that  would 
borrow  of  thee,  turn  thou  not  away." 

"  My  dear  friends,"  said  he,  on  drawing  near  to 
the  close  of  his  subject,  "  the  text  teaches  us,  besides 
that  of  simple  alms-giving,  tlie  duty  of  lending;  but 
you  will  observe,  it  says  not  a  word  about  borrowing. 
Under  the  law  laid  down  here,  we  may  lend  as  much 
as  we  please,  but  it  gives  no  license  to  borrow.  Now, 
as  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  learn,  a  number  of  my 


AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE.      193 

congregation  have  not  been  very  particular  on  this 
point.     They  seem  to  think  that  it  is  helping  their 
neighbours  to  keep  this  injunction  to  lend,  by  com 
pelling  an  obedience  to  the  precept,  whether  they 
are  inclined  to  obey  or  not.     Now,  this  is  wrong. 
"We  are  justified  in  lending  to  those  who  need  such 
kind  offices,  but  not  to  put  others  to  the  inconveni 
ence  of  lending  when  we  are  fully  able  to  supply 
our  own  wants.     This  is  going  beyond  the  scope  of 
the  Divine  injunction,  and  I  hold  it  to  be  morally 
wrong  to  do  so.     Some  of  you,  I  am  credibly  in 
formed,"  and  his  voice  fell  to  a  low,  distinct,  and 
solemn  tone,  "  are  in  the  habit  of  regularly  borrow 
ing  Aunt   Mary's  preserving  kettle — (here  Aunt 
Mary  looked  up  with  a  bewildered  air,  while  her 
face  coloured  deeply,  and  the  whole  congregation 
stared  in  amazement ;  but  the  minister  went  calmly 
on) — and  this,  too,  without  regard  to  her  conveni 
ence.     Nor  is  this  all — the  kettle  is  hardly  ever  re 
turned  in  a  good  condition.     How  thoughtless !  how 
wrong !     In  this,  Aunt  Mary  alone  has  been  faithful 
to  the  precept  in  my  text,  while  you  have  departed 
widely  from  its  true  spirit.     Let  me  hope  that  you 
will  think  better  of  this  matter,  and  wisely  resolve, 
to  let  your  past  short-comings  suffice." 

And  thus  the  sermon  closed.  It  may  well  be 
supposed  that  for  some  days  there  was  something  of 
a  stir  in  the  hive.  The  ladies  of  the  congregation 
who  were  among  the  borrowers  of  the  preserving 


194      AUNT  MARY'S  PRESERVING  KETTLE. 

kettle,  and  they  were  not  a  few,  including  the  minis 
ter's  wife,  were  for  a  time  deeply  incensed  at  Aunt 
Mary,  and  not  a  few  at  the  minister.  But  this 
temporary  indignation  soon  wore  off,  for  Aunt  Mary 
was  so  kind  and  good  that  no  one  could  feel  offended 
with  her  for  any  length  of  time,  more  especially 
where  there  was  really  no  cause  of  offence.  One 
by  one,  they  called  upon  her,  as  they  were  enabled 
to  see  how  really  they  had  been  guilty  of  trespassing 
upon  good  nature,  and,  after  apologizing,  enjoyed 
with  her  a  hearty  laugh  upon  the  subject.  And, 
finally,  the  whole  thing  came  to  be  looked  upon  as 
quite  an  amusing  as  well  as  an  instructive  affair. 

After  this,  Aunt  Mary  was  allowed  to  possess  her 
beautiful  bell-metal  preserving  kettle  in  peace,  which 
was  to  her  a  source  of  no  small  satisfaction.  And 
what  was  more,  in  the  course  of  the  next  preserving 
season,  a  stock  of  twenty  or  thirty  brass,  copper, 
and  bell-metal  kettles,  that  had  been  lying  for  years 
on  the  shelves  of  a  hardware-dealer's  store  in  the 
village,  almost  uninquired  for,  were  all  sold  off,  and 
a  new  supply  obtained  from  Boston  to  meet  the 
increased  demand. 


HOME  AT  LAST. 


"  WE'RE  home  at  last,  and  I  am  so  glad !"  ex 
claimed  a  little  girl,  not  over  ten  years  of  age,  as 
she  paused  at  twilight  with  her  mother  before  a 
small  and  mean-looking  house,  one  evening  late  in 
the  month  of  November. 

The  mother  did  not  reply,  but  lifted  the  latch, 
when  both  passed  in.  There  was  no  light  in  the 
dwelling,  and  no  fire  on  the  hearth.  All  was  cold, 
dark,  and  cheerless  in  that  place  which  had  been 
called  "home"  by  the  little  girl;  yet,  cold,  dark, 
and  cheerless  as  it  was,  she  still  felt  glad  to  be 
there  once  more. 

"/will  get  a  light,  mother,"  said  she,  in  a  cheer 
ful  tone,  running  to  a  closet,  and  taking  thence  a 
candle  and  a  match. 

In  a  moment  or  two  afterwards  the  candle  was 
burning  brightly,  and  throwing  its  light  into  every 
corner  of  that  meanly-furnished  room,  which  con 
tained  but  few  articles,  and  they  the  simplest  that 
were  needed.  An  old  pine  table,  without  leaves, 
three  or  four  old  chairs  the  paint  from  which  had 

195 


196  HOME   AT   LAST. 


long  since  disappeared,  a  bench  and  a  water  bucket, 
with  a  few  cooking  utensils,  made  up  the  furniture 
of  the  apartment. 

A  small  fire  was  soon  kindled  on  the  hearth,  over 
which  the  mother  hung  a  tea-kettle.  When  this 
had  boiled,  and  she  had  drawn  some  tea,  she  placed 
upon  the  table  a  few  slices  of  bread  and  a  piece  of 
cheese,  which  she  took  from  a  basket  that  she  had 
borne  on  her  arm.  Then  the  mother  and  child  sat 
down  to  partake  of  their  frugal  meal,  which  both 
eat  with  a  keen  relish. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  get  home  again !"  the  little  girl 
'  said,  glancing  up  into  her  mother's  face,  with    a 
cheerful  smile. 

The  mother  looked  upon  her  child  with  a  tender 
expression,  but  did  not  reply.  She  thought  how 
poor  and  comfortless  that  home  was  which  seemed 
PO  desirable. 

"  I  don't  like  to  go  to  Mrs.  Walker's,"  said  the 
child,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments. 

"  Why  not,  Jane  ?" 

"  Because  I  can't  do  any  thing  right  there.  Amy 
scolds  me  if  I  touch  a  thing,  and  John  won't  let  me 
go  any  place,  except  into  the  kitchen.  I'm  sure  I 
like  home  a  great  deal  better,  and  I  wish  you  would 
always  stay  at  home,  mother." 

"  I  would  never  go  out,  Jane,  if  I  could  help  it," 
the  mother  replied,  in  the  effort  to  make  her  daugh 
ter  understand,  that  she  might  acquiesce  in  the 


HOME   AT   LAST.  197 

necessity.  "  But  you  know  that  we  must  eat,  and 
have  clothes  to  wear,  and  pay  for  the  house  we  live 
in.  I  could  not  get  the  money  to  do  all  this,  if  1 
did  not  go  out  to  work  in  other  people's  houses,  and 
then  we  would  be  hungry,  and  cold,  and  not  have 
any  home  to  come  to." 

The  little  girl  sighed  and  remained  silent  for  a 
few  moments.  Then  she  said,  in  a  more  cheerful 
tone, 

"  I  know  it's  wrong  for  me  to  talk  as  I  do,  mo 
ther,  and  I'll  try  not  to  complain  any  more.  It's  a 
great  deal  harder  for  you  than  it  is  for  me  to  go  into 
these  big  people's  houses.  You  have  to  work  so 
hard,  and  I  have  only  to  sit  still  in  the  kitchen. 
But  won't  father  come  home  soon  ?  He's  been 
away  so  long !  When  he  was  home  we  had  every 
thing  we  wanted,  and  you  didn't  have  to  go  out  a 
working." 

Tears  came  into  the  mother's  eyes,  and  her  feel 
ings  were  so  moved,  that  she  could  not  venture  to 
reply. 

"  Won't  he  be  home  soon,  mother  ?"  pursued  the 
child. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  the  mother  at  length  said,  in 
as  calm  a  voice  as  she  could  assume. 

"Why  not,  mother?  He's  been  gone  a  long 
time." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  my  child.     But  I  don't  es 

pect  him  home  soon." 

17* 


198  HOME   AT   LAST. 


"  Oh;  I  wish  he  would  come/'  the  child  responded, 
earnestly.  "  If  he  was  only  home,  you  would  not 
have  to  go  out  to  work  any  more." 

The  mother  thought  that  she  heard  the  movement 
of  some  one  near  the  door,  and  leant  her  head  in  a 
listening  attitude.  But  all  was  silent  without,  save  the 
occasional  sound  of  footsteps  as  some  one  hurried  by. 
To  give  the  incidents  and  characters  that  we  have 
introduced  their  true  interest,  we  must  go  back  some 
twelve  years,  and  bring  the  history  of  at  least  one 
of  the  individuals  down  from  that  time. 

A  young  lady  and  one  of  more  mature  age  sat 
near  a  window,  conversing  earnestly,  about  the  pe 
riod  to  which  we  have  reference. 

"  I  would  make  it  an  insuperable  objection,"  the 
elder  of  the  two  said,  in  a  decided  tone. 

"  But  surely  there  can  be  no  harm  in  his  drink 
ing  a  glass  of  wine  or  brandy  now  and  then. 
Where  is  the  moral  wrong  ?" 

"  Do  you  wish  to  be  a  drunkard's  wife?" 
"  No,  I  would  rather  be  dead." 
"  Then  beware  how  you  become  the  wife  of  any 
man  who  indulges  in  even  moderate  drinking.     No 
man  can  do  so  without  being  in  danger.     The  vilest 
drunkard  that  goes  staggering  past  your  door,  will 
tell  you  that  once  he  dreamed  not  of  the   danger 
that  lurked  in  the  cup ;  that,  before  he  suspected 
evil,  a  desire  too  strong  for  his  weak  resistance  was 
formed." 


HOME   AT   LAST.  199 


"I  don't  believe,  aunt,  that  there  is  the  slightest 
danger  in  the  world  of  Edward  Lee.  He  become  a 
drunkard  !  How  can  you  dream  of  such  a  thing, 
aunt  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  much  more  of  the  world  than  you 
have,  Alice.  And  I  have  seen  too  many  as  high- 
minded  and  as  excellent  in  character  as  Edward 
Lee,  who  have  fallen.  And  I  have  seen  the  bright 
promise  of  too  many  girls  utterly  extinguished,  not 
to  tremble  for  you.  I  tell  you,  Alice,  that  of  all 
the  causes  of  misery  that  exist  in  the  married  life, 
intemperance  is  the  most  fruitful.  It  involves  not 
only  external  privations,  toil,  and  disgrace,  but  that 
unutterable  hopelessness  which  we  feel  when  look 
ing  upon  the  moral  debasement  of  one  we  have  re 
spected,  esteemed,  and  loved." 

"  I  am  sure,  aunt,  that  I  will  not  attempt  to 
gainsay  all  that.  If  there  is  any  condition  in  life 
that  seems  to  me  most  deplorable  and  heart-break 
ing,  it  is  the  condition  of  a  drunkard's  wife.  But, 
so  far  as  Edward  Lee  is  concerned,  I  am  sure  there 
does  not  exist  the  remotest  danger." 

"There  is  always  danger  where  there  is  indul 
gence.  The  man  who  will  drink  one  glass  a  day 
now,  will  be  very  apt  to  drink  two  glasses  in  a 
twelvemonth;  and  so  go  on  increasing,  until  his 
power  over  himself  is  gone.  Many,  very  many,  do 
not  become  drunkards  until  they  are  old  men ;  but, 
sooner  or  later,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten.  a  man  who 


200  HOME   AT   LAST. 

allows  himself  to  drink  habitually,  I  care  not  how 
moderately  at  first,  will  lose  his  self-control." 

"  Still,  aunt,  I  cannot  for  a  moment  bring  my 
self  to  apprehend  danger  in  the  case  of  Edward." 

"  So  have  hundreds  said  before  you.  So  did  I 
once  say,  Alice.  But  years  of  heart-aching  misery 
told  how  sadly  I  was  mistaken !" 

The  feelings  of  Alice  were  touched  by  this  allu 
sion.  She  had  never  before  dreamed  that  her  uncle, 
who  died  while  she  was  but  a  little  girl,  had  been 
a  drunkard.  Still,  nothing  that  her  aunt  said 
caused  her  to  entertain  even  a  momentary  doubt  of 
Edward  Lee.  She  felt  that  he  had  too  much  of  the 
power  of  principle  in  his  character  ever  to  be  car 
ried  away  by  the  vice  of  intemperance. 

Edward  Lee  had  offered  himself  in  marriage  to 
Alice  Listen,  and  it  was  on  the  occasion  of  her  men 
tioning  this  to  her  aunt  that  the  conversation  just 
given  occurred.  It  had,  however,  no  effect  upon  the 
mind  of  Alice.  She  loved  Edward  Lee  tenderly, 
and,  therefore,  had  every  confidence  in  him.  They 
were,  consequently,  married,  and  commenced  life 
with  prospects  bright  and  flattering.  But  Edward 
continued  to  use  intoxicating  drinks  in  moderate 
quantities  every  day.  And,  while  the  taste  for  it 
was  forming,  he  was  wholly  unconscious  of  danger. 
He  would  as  readily  have  believed  himself  in  danger 
of  murdering  his  wife,  as  in  danger  of  becoming  a 
drunkard.  He  was  a  young  merchant  in  a  good 


HOME   AT  LAST.  201 

business  when  married,  and  able  to  put  his  young 
wife  in  possession  of  a  beautifully  furnished  house 
and  all  required  domestic  attendance,  so  as  to  leave 
her  but  a  very  small  portion  of  care. 

Like  the  passage  of  a  delightful  dream  were  the 
first  five  years  of  her  wedded  life.  No  one  was  ever 
happier  than  she  in  her  married  lot,  or  more  uncon 
scious  of  coming  evil.  She  loved  her  husband  ten 
derly  and  deeply,  and  he  was  all  to  her  that  she 
could  desire.  One  sweet  child  blessed  their  union. 

At  the  end  of  the  period  named,  like  the  sudden 
bursting  of  a  fearful  tempest  from  a  summer  sky, 
came  the  illness  and  death  of  her  aunt,  who  had 
been  a  mother  to  her  from  childhood. 

Scarcely  had  her  heart  begun  to  recover  from  this 
shock,  when  it  was  startled  by  another  and  more 
terrible  affliction.  All  at  once  it  became  apparent 
that  her  husband  was  losing  his  self-control.  And 
the  conversation  that  she  had  held  with  her  aunt 
about  him,  years  before,  came  up  fresh  in  her 
memory,  like  the  echo  of  a  warning  voice,  now 
heard,  alas !  too  late.  She  noticed,  with  alarm, 
that  he  drank  largely  of  brandy  at  dinner,  and  was 
much  stupified  when  he  would  rise  from  the  table — 
always  retiring  and  sleeping  for  an  hour  before 
going  back  to  his  business.  Strange,  it  seemed  to 
her,  that  she  had  never  remarked  this  before 
Now,  if  she  had  desired  it,  she  could  not  close  hei 
eyes  to  the  terrible  truth. 


202  HOME   AT   LAST. 

For  many  weeks  she  bore  with  the  regulai  daily 
occurrence  of  what  has  just  been  alluded  to.  By 
that  time,  her  feelings  became  so  excited,  that  she 
could  keep  silence  no  longer. 

"I  wouldn't  drink  any  more  brandy,  Edward/' 
said  she,  one  day  at  the  dinner  table;  "it  does  you 
no  good." 

"How  do  you  know  that  it  does  not?"  was  the 
prompt  reply,  made  in  a  tone  that  expressed  very 
clearly  a  rebuke  for  interfering  in  a  matter  that,  as 
he  thought,  did  not  concern  her. 

"  I  cannot  think  that  it  does  you  any  good,  and 
it  may  do  you  harm,"  the  wife  said,  hesitatingly, 
while  her  eyes  grew  dim  with  tears. 

"  Do  me  harm  !     What  do  you  mean,  Alice  ?" 

"It  does  harm,  sometimes,  you  know,  Edward  ?" 

"  That  is,  it  makes  drunkards  sometimes.  And 
you  are  afraid  that  your  husband  will  become  a 
drunkard  !  Quite  a  compliment  to  him,  truly  !" 

"  0,  no,  no,  no,  Edward  !  I  am  sure  you  will 
never  be  one.  But — but — but — " 

"  But  what  ?" 

"  There  is  always  danger,  you  know,  Edward." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course  !  And  I  am  going  to  be  a 
drunken  vagabond,  if  I  keep  on  drinking  a  glass  of 
brandy  at  dinner  time  !" 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Edward !"  said  Mrs.  Lee,  giving 
way  to  tears.  "  You  never  spoke  to  me  in  this  way 
before." 


HOME   AT   LAST.  203 


"  I  know  I  never  did.  Nor  did  my  wife  ever  in 
sinuate  before  that  she  thought  me  in  danger  of  be 
coming  that  debased,  despised  thing,  a  drunkard  I" 

"  Say  no  more,  Edward,  in  mercy  !"  Mrs.  Lee 
responded — "  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you.  Pardon 
me  this  once,  and  I  will  never  again  allude  to  the 
subject." 

A  sullen  silence  followed  on  the  part  of  Lee,  who 
drank  frequently  during  the  meal,  and  seemed  to  do 
so  more  with  the  evil  pleasure  of  paining  his  wife 
than  from  any  other  motive.  So  sadly  perverting 
is  the  influence  of  liquor  upon  some  men,  when  op 
posed,  changing  those  who  are  kind  and  affectionate 
into  cruel  and  malicious  beings. 

From  that  hour  Mrs.  Lee  was  a  changed  woman. 
She  felt  that  the  star  of  love,  which  for  so  many 
happy  years  had  thrown  its  rays  into  the  very  midst 
of  their  fireside  circle,  had  become  hidden  amid 
clouds,  from  which  she  looked  at  every  moment 
for  the  bursting  of  a  desolating  storm.  And  her 
husband  was,  likewise,  a  changed  man.  His  pride 
and  self-love  had  been  wounded,  and  he  could  not 
forgive  her  who  had  thus  wounded  him,  even  though 
she  were  his  wife.  Whenever  he  was  under  the  in 
fluence  of  liquor,  he  would  brood  over  her  words, 
and  indulge  in  bitter  thoughts  against  her  because 
she  had  presumed  to  insinuate  that  there  was  danger 
of  his  becoming  a  drunkard. 
At  last  he  was  brought  home  in  a  state  of  drunken 


204  HOME   AT   LAST. 

insensibility.  This  humbled  him  for  a  time,  but 
did  not  cause  him  to  abandon  the  use  of  intoxi 
cating  drinks.  And  it  was  not  long  before  he  was 
again  in  the  same  condition. 

But  we  cannot  linger  to  trace,  step  by  step,  his 
downward  course,  nor  to  describe  its  effects  upon 
the  mind  of  his  wife ;  but  will  pass  over  five  years 
more,  and  again  introduce  them  to  the  reader. 

How  sadly  altered  is  every  thing!  The  large 
and  comfortable  house,  in  an  eligible  position,  has 
been  changed  for  a  small,  close,  ill-arranged  tene 
ment.  The  elegant  furniture  has  disappeared,  and 
in  its  place  are  but  few  articles,  and  those  old  and 
common.  But  the  saddest  change  of  all  is  appa 
rent  in  the  face,  dress,  and  air  of  Mrs.  Lee.  Her 
pale,  thin,  sorrow-stricken  countenance — her  old 
and  faded  garments — her  slow,  melancholy  move 
ments,  contrast  sadly  with  what  she  was  a  few  years 
before. 

A  lot  of  incessant  toil  is  now  her  portion.  Lee 
has,  in  consequence  of  intemperance,  causing  neg 
lect  of  business,  failed,  and  had  every  thing  taken 
from  him  to  pay  his  debts.  For  a  while  after  this 
event,  he  contributed  to  the  support  of  his  wife  and 
child  by  acting  in  the  capacity  of  a  clerk.  But  he 
goon  became  so  dissipated,  that  no  merchant  would 
employ  him,  and  the  entire  support  of  the  family 
fell  upon  his  wife.  That  was,  in  the  very  nature 
of  things,  an  exceedingly  meagre  support.  Mrs. 


HOME   AT   LAST.  205 


Lee  had  never  looked  forward  to  such  a  condition 
in  life,  and  therefore  was  entirely  unprepared  for  it. 
Ordinary  sewing  was  all  that  she  could  do,  and  at 
this  she  could  make  but  a  small  pittance.  The  littlo 
that  her  husband  earned  was  all  expended  in  the 
accursed  poison  that  had  already  ruined  himself  and 
beggared  his  family. 

After  having  suffered  every  thing  to  sink  to  this 
condition,  Lee  found  so  little  attractive  in  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  heart-broken  wife  and  beggared  child, 
and  so  much  about  them  to  reprove  him,  that  he 
left  them  without  a  word,  and  went  off  to  a  neigh 
bouring  city. 

How  passing  strange  is  the  effect  of  drunkenness 
upon  the  mind,  and  character  of  a  man  !  Is  it  not 
wonderful  how  the  tender,  affectionate,  and  provident 
husband  and  father  can  become  so  changed  into  a 
worse  than  brutal  insensibility  to  all  the  sacred  du 
ties  of  life  ?  Is  it  not  wonderful  how  the  man,  who 
would,  to-day,  sacrifice  even  life  itself  for  the  safety 
of  his  family — who  thinks  nothing  of  toil,  early 
and  late,  that  he  may  provide  for  every  want,  can 
in  a  few  years  forsake  them,  and  leave  them  to 
struggle,  single-handed,  with  sickness  and  poverty  ? 
But  so  it  is  !  Instances  of  such  heartless  abandon 
ment  are  familiar  to  every  one.  "  Surely,"  as  it 
has  been  said,  "  strong  drink  is  a  devil  I"  For  he 
that  comes  under  its  influence  is  transformed  into  a 
worse  than  brutal  nature. 

18 


206  HOME   AT    LAST. 

For  a  time  after  Lee  went  away,  his  wife  was 
enabled,  by  sewing,  to  meet  the  scanty  wants  of  her 
self  and  child.  The  burden  of  his  support  had 
been  removed,  and  that  was  something  gained. 
But  a  severe  illness,  during  which  both  herself  and 
little  Jane  suffered  much  for  the  want  of  nourishing 
food,  left  her  with  impaired  sight.  She  could  no 
longer,  by  sewing,  earn  the  money  required  to  buy 
food  and  pay  her  rent,  and  was  compelled  to  resort 
to  severe  bodily  toil  to  accomplish  that  end. 

From  several  of  the  old  friends  of  her  better 
days,  she  had  obtained  sewing,  and  necessity  com 
pelled  her  to  resort  to  them  for  still  humbler  em 
ployment. 

11  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Lee  !  I  have  been  won 
dering  what  in  the  world  had  become  of  you,"  said 
one  of  those  former  friends,  a  Mrs.  Walker,  as  the 
poor  woman  called  to  see  her,  after  her  recovery. 

"  I  have  been  very  sick,"  replied  Mrs.  Lee,  in  a 
low  feeble  voice,  and  her  appearance  told  too  plainly 
the  effects  of  the  sickness  upon  her. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it.  But  I  am  very  glad  you 
are  out  again,  for  my  sewing  is  all  behindhand." 

"  Fm  afraid  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  do  any 
more  sewing  for  a  good  while,"  said  Mrs.  Lee,  de- 
s>pondingly. 

"  Indeed  !     And  why  not?" 

"  Because  my  eyes  have  become  so  weak  that  I 
can  scarcely  see." 


HOME   AT   LAST.  207 


"  Then  what  do  you  expect  to  do  ?  How  will 
you  get  along,  Mrs.  Lee  ?" 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  myself.  But  I  must  do  some 
thing." 

"  What  can  you  do  besides  sewing  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  of  any  thing,  unless  I  take  in 
washing." 

"  Take  in  washing  !  You  are  not  fit  to  stand  at 
the  washing  tub." 

"I  know  that,  ma'am.  But  when  we  are  driven 
to  it,  we  can  do  a  great  many  things,  even  though 
we  gradually  fail  under  our  task." 

A  pause  of  a  few  moments  ensued,  which  was 
broken  by  Mrs.  Lee. 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  your  washing  to  do;  Mrs. 
Walker  ?"  she  asked,  hesitatingly. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  about  that,  Mrs.  Lee.  I 
never  put  my  washing  out  of  the  house." 

"  You  hire  some  one  in  the  house,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  will  come  for  what  I  pay  my 
present  washerwoman,  why  I  suppose  I  might  as 
well  throw  it.  in  your  way." 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course  I  will.  How  much  do  you 
give  ?» 

"  I  give  half  a  dollar  a  day.  Can  you  come  for 
that?" 

"  If  you  will  let  me  bring  my  little  girl  along. 
I  could  not  leave  her  alone." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Mrs.  Walker 


•208  HOME   AT   LAST. 


,-nusingly.  "  I  have  so  many  children  of  my  own 
about  the  house." 

"  She  will  not  be  at  all  troublesome,  ma'am/'  the 
poor  woman  urged. 

"  Will  she  be  willing  to  stay  in  the  kitchen  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  will  keep  her  there." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Lee,  I  suppose  I  might  as  well  en 
gage  you.  But  there  is  one  thing  that  I  wish  un 
derstood.  The  person  that  I  hire  to  help  do  the 
washing  must  scrub  up  the  kitchen  after  the  clothes 
are  all  out.  Are  you  willing  to  do  that  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  ma'am.  I  will  do  it/'  said  Mrs.  Lee, 
while  her  heart  sank  within  her  at  the  idea  of  per 
forming  tasks  for  which  her  feeble  health  and 
strength  seemed  altogether  insufficient.  But  she 
felt  that  she  must  put  her  hands  to  the  work,  if  she 
died  in  the  effort  to  perform  it. 

Three  days  afterwards,  she  entered,  as  was  agreed 
upon,  at  half  a  dollar  a  day,  the  kitchen  of  Mrs. 
Walker,  who  had  but  a  few  years  before  been  one 
of  her  friends  and  companions. 

It  is  remarkable,  how  persons  of  the  most  deli 
cate  constitutions  will  sometimes  bear  up  under  the 
severest  toil,  and  encounter  the  most  trying  priva 
tions,  and  yet  not  fail,  but  really  appear  to  gain 
some  degree  of  strength  under  the  ordeal  that  ifc 
seemed,  to  all  human  calculation,  must  destroy  them. 
So  it  was  with  Mrs.  Lee.  Although  she  suffered 
much  from  debility  and  weariness,  occasioned  by  ex- 


HOME  AT   LAST.  209 


cessive  toil  for  one  all  unaccustomed  to  hard  labour, 
yet  she  did  not,  as  she  feared,  sink  rapidly  under  it. 
By  taking  in  as  much  washing  and  ironing  as  she 
could  do,  and  going  out  two  days  in  the  week 
regularly,  she  managed  to  procure  for  herself  and 
child  the  bare  necessaries  of  life.  This  she  had 
continued  for  about  two  years  at  the  time  when  first 
introduced  to  the  reader's  attention,  as  returning 
with  her  child  to  her  comfortless  home. 

The  slight  movement  near  her  door,  which  Mrs. 
Lee  had  thought  to  be  only  an  imaginary  sound, 
was  a  reality.  While  little  Jane  spoke  of  her 
father,  and  wondered  at  his  absence,  a  man,  com 
fortably  clad  in  coarse  garments,  stood  near  the 
door  in  a  listening  attitude.  Once  or  twice  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  latch,  but  each  time  withdrew  it 
and  stood  musing  in  seeming  doubt.  "  Oh,  I  wish 
father  would  come  home  !"  fell  upon  his  ear,  in 
clear,  distinct,  earnest  tones. 

He  did  not  hear  the  low  reply,  though  he  listened 
eagerly.  Only  for  a  moment  longer  did  he  pause. 
Then  swinging  the  door  open,  and  stepping  in 
quickly,  he  said  in  an  earnest  voice,  "  And  I  have 
come  home  at  last,  my  child ! — at  last,  my  dear 
Alice  !  if  you  will  let  me  speak  to  you  thus  tenderly 
— never,  never  again  to  leave  you  !" 

Poor  Mrs.  Lee  started  and  turned  pale  as  her 
husband  entered  thus  abruptly,  and  all  unexpected. 
But  she  saw  a  change  in  him  that  was  not  to  be 
18* 


210  HOME   AT   LAST. 

mistaken  •  and  all  her  former  love  returned  with 
overwhelming  tenderness.  Still  she  restrained  her 
self  with  a  strong  effort,  and  said — 

"  Edward,  how  do  you  come  ?" 

"  As  a  sober  man.  As  a  true  husband  and  father, 
I  trust,  to  my  wife  and  child;  to  banish  sorrow 
from  their  hearts,  and  wipe  the  tears  from  their 
eyes.  Will  you  receive  me  thus  ?" 

He  had  but  half  finished,  when  Mrs.  Lee  sprang 
towards  him,  and  fell  sobbing  in  his  outstretched 
arms.  She  saw  that  he  was  in  earnest,  she  felt 
that  he  was  in  earnest,  and  once  more  a  gleam  of 
sunshine  fell  upon  her  heart. 

Years  have  passed,  and  no  cloud  has  yet  dimmed 
the  light  that  then  dawned  upon  the  darkness  of 
Mrs.  Lee's  painful  lot.  Her  husband  is  fast  rising, 
by  industry  and  intelligence,  towards  the  condition 
in  life  which  he  had  previously  occupied ;  and  she 
is  beginning  again  to  find  herself  in  congenial  as 
sociations.  May  the  light  of  her  peaceful  home 
never  again  grow  dim. 


GOING  HOME. 


"I.T's  nearly  a  year,  now,  since  I  was  home/1 
said  Lucy  Gray  to  her  husband,  "  and  so  you  must 
let  me  go  for  a  few  weeks." 

They  had  been  married  some  four  or  five  years, 
and  never  had  been  separated,  during  that  time,  for 
twenty-four  hours  at  a  time. 

"  I  thought  you  called  this  your  home,"  remarked 
Gray,  looking  up,  with  a  mock-serious  air. 

"  I  mean  my  old  home,"  replied  Lucy,  in  a  half- 
affected  tone  of  anger.  "Or,  to  make  it  plain,  I 
want  to  go  and  see  father  and  mother." 

"  Can't  you  wait  three  or  four  months,  until  I 
can  go  with  you  ?"  asked  the  young  husband. 

"  I  want  to  go  now.  You  said  all  along  that  I 
should  go,  in  May." 

"  I  know  I  did.  But  I  thought  I  would  be  able 
to  go  with  you." 

"  Well,  why  can't  you  go  ?  I  am  sure  you  might, 
if  you  would." 

"  No,  Lucy,  I  cannot  possibly  leave  home  now. 
But  if  you  are  very  anxious  to  see  the  old  folks,  I 
can  put  you  into  the  stage,  and  you  will  go  safe 

enough.     Ellen  and  I  can  take  care  of  little  Lucy. 

211 


212  GOING   HOME. 


no  doubt.  How  long  a  time  do  you  wish  to  spend 
with  them  ?" 

"About  three  weeks,  or  so." 

"Very  well,  Lucy;  if  you  are  not  afraid  to  go 
alone,  I  will  not  say  a  word." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  dear,"  said  the  wife,  in  a  voice 
changed  and  softened  in  its  expression.  "  But  are 
you  perfectly  willing  to  let  me  go,  Henry  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  was  the  reply,  although  the  tone 
in  which  the  words  were  uttered  had  something  of 
reluctance  in  it.  "  It  would  be  selfish  in  me  to  say, 
no.  Your  father  and  mother  will  be  delighted  to 
receive  a  visit  just  now/' 

"And  you  think  that  you  and  Ellen  can  get 
along  with  little  Lucy  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  very  well." 

"  I  should  like  to  go,  so  much  I" 

"  Go,  then,  by  all  means." 

"  But  won't  you  be  very  lonesome  without  me  ?" 
suggested  Lucy,  in  whose  own  bosom  a  feeling  of 
loneliness  was  already  beginning  to  be  felt  at  the 
bare  idea  of  a  separation  from  her  husband. 

"I  can  stand  it  as  long  as  you,"  was  Gray's 
laughing  reply  to  this.  "  And  then  I  shall  have 
our  dear  little  girl." 

Lucy  laughed  in  return,  but  did  not  feel  as  happy 
at  the  idea  of  "going  home"  as  she  thought  she 
would  be,  before  her  husband's  consent  had  been 
gained.  The  desire  to  go,  however,  remaining 


GOING   HOME.  213 

strong,  it  was  finally  settled  that  the  visit  should  bo 
paid.  So  all  the  preparations  were  entered  upon,  and 
in  the  course  of  a  week  Henry  Gray  saw  his  wife 
take  her  seat  in  the  stage,  with  a  feeling  of  regret 
at  parting,  which  required  all  his  efforts  to  conceal. 
As  for  Lucy,  when  the  moment  of  separation  came, 
she  regretted  ever  having  thought  of  going  without 
her  husband  and  child ;  but  she  was  ashamed  to  let 
her  real  feelings  be  known.  So  she  kept  up  a  show 
of  indifference,  all  the  while  that  her  heart  was  flut 
tering.  The  "  good-bye"  was  finally  said,  the  driver 
cracked  his  whip,  and  off  rolled  the  stage.  Gray 
turned  homewards  with  a  dull,  lonely  feeling,  and 
Lucy  drew  her  veil  over  her  face  to  conceal  the  un 
bidden  tears  from  her  fellow-passengers. 

That  night,  poor  Mr.  Gray  slept  but  little.  How 
could  he  ?  His  Lucy  was  absent,  and,  for  the  first 
time,  from  his  side.  On  the  next  morning,  as  he 
could  think  of  nothing  but  his  wife,  he  sat  down 
and  wrote  to  her,  telling  her  how  lost  and  lonely  he 
felt,  and  how  much  little  Lucy  missed  her,  but  still 
to  try  and  enjoy  herself,  and  by  all  means  to  write 
him  a  letter  by  return  mail. 

As  for  Mrs.  Gray,  during  her  journey  of  two 
whole  days,  she  cried  fully  half  of  the  time,  and 
when  she  got  "  home"  at  last,  that  is,  at  her  father's, 
she  looked  the  picture  of  distress,  rather  than  the 
daughter  full  of  joy  at  meeting  her  parents. 

Right  glad  were  the  old  people  to  see  their  deal 


214  GOING   HOME. 


child,  but  grieved,  at  the  same  time,  and  a  little  hurt, 
too,  at  her  weakness  and  evident  regret  at  having 
left  her  husband,  to  make  them  a  brief  visit.  The 
real  pleasure  that  Lucy  felt  at  once  more  seeing  the 
faces  of  her  parents,  whom  she  tenderly  loved,  was 
not  strong  enough  to  subdue  and  keep  in  conceal 
ment,  except  for  a  very  short  period  at  a  time,  her 
yearning  desire  again  to  be  with  her  husband,  for 
whom  she  never  before  experienced  a  feeling  of 
such  deep  and  earnest  affection.  Several  times, 
during  the  first  day  of  her  visit,  did  her  mother  find 
her  in  tears,  which  she  would  quickly  dash  aside, 
and  then  endeavour  to  smile  and  seem  cheerful. 

The  day  after  her  arrival  brought  her  a  letter — 
the  first  she  had  ever  received  from  her  husband. 
How  precious  was  every  word  !  How  often  and 
often  did  she  read  it  over,  until  every  line  was  en 
graven  on  her  memory  I  Then  she  sat  down,  and 
spent  some  two  or  three  hours  in  replying  to  it.  As 
she  sealed  this  first  epistle  to  her  husband,  full  of  ten 
der  expressions,  she  sighed,  as  the  wish  arose  in  her 
mind,  involuntarily,  that  she  could  only  go  with  it 
on  its  journey  to  the  village  of . 

Long  were  the  hours,  and  wearily  passed,  to 
Henry  Gray.  It  was  the  sixth  day  of  trial  before 
Lucy's  answer  came.  How  dear  to  his  heart  was 
every  word  of  her  affectionate  epistle  !  Like  her, 
he  went  over  it  so  often,  that  every  sentiment  was 
fixed  in  his  mind. 


GOING   HOME.  215 

"  Two  weeks  longer  !     How  can  I  bear  it  ?"  he 
said,  rising  up,  and  pacing  the  floor  backwards  and 
forwards,  after  reading  her  letter  for  the  tenth  time. 
On  the  next  day,  the  seventh  of  his  lonely  state, 
Mr.  Gray  sat  down  to  write  again  to  Lucy.     Several 
times  he  wrote  the  words,  as  he  proceeded  in  the ' 
letter — "  Come  home  soon/' — but  as  often  obliterated 
them.     He  did  not  wish  to  appear  over-anxious  for 
her  return,  on  her  father's  and  mother's  account,  who 
were  much  attached  to  her.   But,  forgetting  this  reason 
for  not  urging  her  early  return,  he  had  commenced 
again  writing  the  words,  "  Come  home  soon/'  when  a 
pair  of  soft  hands  were  suddenly  placed  over  his  eyes, 
by  some  one  who  had  stolen  softly  up  behind  him. 
" Guess  my  name  !"  said  a  voice,  in  feigned  tones. 
Gray  had  no  need  to  guess  whose  were  the  hands, 
for  a  sudden  cry  of  joy  from  a  little  toddling  thing, 
told  that  "Mamma"  had  come. 

How  "  Mamma"  was  hugged  and  kissed  all  round, 
need  not  here  be  told.  That  scene  was  well  enough 
in  its  place,  but  would  lose  its  interest  in  telling.  It 
may  be  imagined,  however,  without  suffering  any  par 
ticular  detriment,  by  all  who  have  a  fancy  for  such 
things. 

"  And  father,  too  !"  suddenly  exclaimed  Mr.  Gray, 
after  he  had  almost  smothered  his  wife  with  kisses, 
looking  up,  with  an  expression  of  pleasure  and  sur 
prise,  at  an  old  man  wnj  stood  looking  on,  with  his 
good-humoured  face  covered  with  smiles. 


•216  GOING    HOME. 

"  Yes.  I  had  to  bring  the  good-for-nothing  jade 
home/'  replied  the  old  man,  advancing  and  grasping 
his  son-in-law's  hand,  with  a  hearty  grip.  "  She  did 
nothing  but  mope  and  cry  all  the  while,  and  I  don't 
care  if  she  never  comes  to  see  us  again,  unless  she 
brings  you  along  to  keep  her  in  good-humour." 

"  And  I  never  intend  going  alone  again,"   Mrs. 
Gray  said,  holding  a  little  chubby  girl  to  her  bosom, 
while  she  kissed  it  over  and  over  again,  at  the  same 
time  that  she  pressed  close  up  to  her  husband's  side. 
The  old  man  understood  it  all.     He  was  not  jea 
lous  of  Lucy's  affection,  for  he  knew  that  she  loved 
him  as  tenderly  as  ever.     He  was  too  glad  to  know 
that  she  was  happy  with  a  husband  to  whom  she 
was  as  the  apple  of  his  eye.     In  about  three  months 
Lucy  made  another  visit  "  home."     But  husband 
and  child  were  along,  this  time,  and  the  visit  proved 
a  happy  one  all  around.     Of  course,  "father  and 
mother"  had  their  jest  and  their  laugh,  and  their 
affectation  of  jealousy  and  anger  at  Lucy  for  her 
«  childishness,"  as  they  termed  it,  when  home  in 
May ;  but  Lucy,  though  half-vexed  at  herself  for 
what  she  called  a  weakness,  nevertheless  persevered 
in  saying  that  she  never  meant   to   go   anywhere 
again  without  Henry.     "  That  was  settled." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


945043 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


